


Sunshine, Fresh Air, Telly and Time

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Agatha Christie - Freeform, Andromeda's POV, Epistolary, Family, Forgiveness, Found Family, Gen, Getting Together, Grief, Hair care, Healing, Jonathan Creek - Freeform, M/M, Magical Theory, Male Breastfeeding, Male Lactation, Midsomer Murders - Freeform, Muggle Popular Culture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Regret, Tellytubbies - Freeform, faffing about in the garden, metamorphmagi, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: Immediately following the war, Andromeda and Harry must look after Teddy. But who will look after them?





	Sunshine, Fresh Air, Telly and Time

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT NOTE:** [SPOILER] In this fic Harry nurses Teddy; however, there is no mpreg and apart from a scene in which Andromeda reflects on her first time breastfeeding, the nursing is not "explicit".
> 
> Dear **tdcatsblog** ,
> 
> When I looked through the prompt list nothing was speaking to me until I saw Chasing Cars. For months wherever I would go this story was building itself in my mind, with scenes forming around the incredible moody but hopeful tone of this great Snow Patrol song. You said in the prompt that the claimant could "go wild" with the POV, and I'm afraid I really, really did. So here is this. I would be flabbergasted if it's anything close to what you had in mind, but I hope you like it.
> 
> Gargantuan thanks to the people who helped me figure out how to make the format work and the relationships compelling. Also to my beta, who made this thing readable and cheered me on through my relentless updates. And to the mods (old and new) for working hard to make this fest happen, granting me an extension, having patience with my questions and being all around fantastic people.

2 May 1998  
It’s been hours since you left. The sun is coming up.

Teddy’s been screaming the whole time. He’s just wailed himself to sleep. I’m jealous, truth be told. My nerves are wrecked. I wish I could shriek or cry or sleep, but Teddy needs me, so I have to keep it together. 

If anything happens to you at Hogwarts, I’ll never forgive you for going, or myself for letting you. 

 

Harry Potter’s just been here. He sat in your dad’s favourite armchair and told me you’re not coming home and nor is Remus. Teddy’s an orphan. And what am I? I was a widow, but there’s no word for this kind of bereavement. 

Harry—he asked me to call him that—says he intends to carry out his duties as godfather. He looked almost defiant when he told me that, as though I might try to dissuade him. I told him he can move in today. I can’t do this alone. I can’t be who you should have been for Teddy, by all rights. “One and done”, your dad and I joked when you were a baby and running us ragged. You were such a handful and we couldn’t imagine another little one in the house. I never wanted to be a mother to anyone but you. But you’re gone and Teddy’s still here, less than a month old. He’s sleeping again, in the crib we Transfigured a few days before you went into labour. When Teddy wakes, he won’t see you, nor Remus. He’ll start wailing again when he sees only me, when I am the one that scoops him up.

Right now all he wants is you, but in a few years he won’t remember. Harry and I are the only parents he’ll recall.

 

3 May 1998  
Harry moved in last night—into your and Remus’s room. He came with just his Hogwarts trunk. If he was offput by my abrupt offer, he didn’t show it. You know, he seemed relieved. I began to move the crib into my room, but he stammered out assurances that he’d like to share a room with Teddy, if I didn’t mind. 

Yet what does he know about the trials and tribulations of raising a child?—an infant!—and a metamorphmagus and possible werewolf, to boot! I don’t think he’s ever even spent time around babies, nevermind ones that scream for hours calling to parents who won’t answer. But Harry says he wants to learn everything I can teach him, and, d’you know, even though it couldn’t be earlier days, I believe him. 

Maybe I just need to believe him. 

Your dad and I were a team when it came to raising you. Doing the job alone, especially now… it doesn’t bear thinking about. 

And Harry so clearly wants to do right by your baby boy. You and Remus were right to choose him. He’s enthusiastic—well, as enthusiastic as anyone can be about assuming such a role. 

I don’t know. Maybe I was cracked to invite him to live with us. Maybe I shouldn’t be making any big decisions right now. I’m not thinking clearly. From what Molly Weasley has implied about his relatives and his upbringing… what can a boy raised like that know about how to show a baby it’s cared for? Cherished? Right now, though, trusting that he can feels like a lifeline, because there isn’t room for anything in my heart apart from the ache of missing you and your dad.

So right now he’s sleeping in your room, next to your son. I cast a Monitor Charm—the first spell I taught Harry—and I’ll go in to show him how to feed Teddy when he wakes, at least for the time being, until Harry gets the hang of midnight feedings and burpings and nappies.

 

4 May 1998  
Teddy’s still screaming for hours at a time. Your gran would have said he was colicky, but that’s not it. Harry’s being unbelievably patient with him—far more patient that I would have imagined a seventeen-year-old could be. He watches me change nappies and struggles to copy what I do while Teddy squirms under his amateurish, too careful hands. He seems to pay no mind to Teddy shrieking into his eardrums while he bounces him on either side of his chest like I showed him. He’s no natural, but he’s determined.

There’s a full moon next week—first one since Teddy was born. I brought it up with Harry while Teddy was napping this afternoon. Poor Harry. And poor me, too. Here we are, each of us living with a stranger—raising a child with a stranger. And we have to do it all—everything—on our own. Teddy has no one else. 

The silver lining to becoming parents literally overnight, if there can be one, is that both of us are utterly distracted and knackered. There isn’t time to grieve, to give into despair—Teddy needs us. 

 

5 May 1998  
Harry and I talked more about the full moon tonight. Harry’s line, communicated loudly (he’s still not fully acclimated to living with a newborn) and in no uncertain terms, is that there’s no evidence that Teddy inherited Remus’s lycanthropy. He doesn’t want to take any action, especially anything that might upset Teddy, if it turns out to be in vain. Harry’s dander was well up, so I dropped it for the moment. I don’t want us to be at odds, especially so early on.

But the full moon is less than a week away. We must decide soon.

 

6 May 1998  
Breakfast was a stiff affair. After some dry toast and a cuppa, Harry informed me that Teddy is not being locked up, no matter what. I admit I was shocked by the intimation that _I_ had been entertaining such a grisly notion. Certainly, I’m more pragmatic about the issue than Harry is, but to suggest that I would cage your infant son... 

But still, unlikely as it is that Remus’s condition was transmitted to Teddy, there is a chance. 

I let Harry know that there would be no locked up babies under this roof, and he lowered his hackles considerably, so I decided to push the issue—we really are running short of time. I asked Harry if he’s prepared to take no precautions on principle and put himself in a position in which he has to subdue a transformed Teddy, or force me to do so. 

I don’t think he’d considered that. He asked me what I had in mind. Truth be told, I haven't a clue. I suggested consulting a Healer from St Mungo’s. Harry didn’t care for that idea either, though I could tell he was making an effort to keep his temper in check. He’d said he’d prefer not to involve other people. I know that he and Remus shared a closeness once. Harry must worry how a werewolf—or the child of one—will be received.

Still, I asked him to have a think about it. He and I may be sympathetic to the plight of werewolves, but sympathy and good intentions do not expertise make.

One way or another, we have to make a decision. And soon.

 

7 May 1998  
Harry and I resumed deliberations this morning, and he proposed bringing Poppy Pomfrey here for a private consultation. He sought to fill me in that she’s the Hogwarts Medi-Witch, as if your time at Hogwarts wasn’t punctuated by her owls and Floo calls alerting me about your myriad accidents. If your dad and I hadn’t been forced to move house after the Battle of the Seven Potters, she’d probably still know our address. You gave us a run for our money, my dear. And the Hogwarts Matron, too. I’m happy to consult with her, if she’s willing. Considering her history of accommodating Remus as a student and during his tenure as a prof, she must know something of how to proceed. I should have thought of her in the first place, really. But Harry got us there, so it’s immaterial. 

Harry and I composed a discreet owl asking Poppy to visit us at home to consult in a professional capacity and not to disclose that we are living together. Now we await her reply. If we don’t hear by tomorrow, I’ll have to go to Hogwarts in person. I haven’t left the house since the 1st of the month, and Harry hasn’t left since he arrived. We’ve just been magically increasing our staple foods—coffee and bread and noodles. Teddy’s feeding is the most immediate concern, but you left milk behind when you went to Hogwarts, and I’ve been increasing that too. Between teaching Harry how to hold Teddy correctly and pin his nappies and swaddle him and feed him and burp him and soothe him during his marathon tantrums… well, there just hasn’t been time to pop round the shops for supplies.

 

8 May 1998  
Poppy, bless her, replied immediately. Her owl tapped on my window in the middle of the night, but I was too relieved to receive it to care. I wasn’t asleep anyhow. I don’t sleep much these days. I spend most of the day busy with Harry and Teddy, so the middle of the night—between feedings and changes—is the only time I have time to think. I can’t think about anything but you and your dad, so mostly I cry while the lads are sleeping.

I digress. Poppy’s ready and willing to help, which is no less than I expected from a woman of her skill and mettle. She’ll be here at 10 o’clock. 

 

9 May 1998  
A long day yesterday turned into a long night. Poppy didn’t know that you and Remus had had a son, of course, but when she arrived and saw Harry clutching a magenta-haired baby to his chest like a shield, she just nodded and said that with the full moon two days away we’d have to decide quickly on a course of action. She informed us that officially—legally—the only course of action is to take Teddy to St Mungo’s for what she disdainfully referred to as “registration and observation” on the 11th. Harry protested, but Poppy waved him off and told us in no uncertain terms what she thought of _that_ standard of care. That put Harry more at his ease. 

One of the things I’ve always admired about Poppy: she’s decisive—an admirable quality in her profession. She cut to the chase; she thinks the best, safest and least traumatic option for all involved is to give Teddy a reduced dosage of Wolfsbane as cautionary measure. She emphasised that the odds that Teddy is infected are miniscule—apparently having Remus in her care all those decades ago set her off on a course of research that she’s never abandoned. 

According to Poppy, the violence of the bite is a part of the magic of transmission. With no bite in Teddy’s case, she feels there is a negligible chance that Teddy inherited lycanthropy from Remus. And yet she, like me, thinks it advisable to proceed with caution. She admitted that there is no known precedent for Teddy’s case; most people hide their own lycanthropy, nevermind that of their children. 

Poppy also recommended that she be the one to oversee Teddy when the moon becomes full. She went as far as to offer to take him to the Hogwarts infirmary—there are no students in the castle at present. She worries that, on the infinitesimally small chance that Teddy does transform, the sight would seriously disturb Harry or myself. She was gentle but frank in telling us that even with Wolfsbane, the transformation remains painful. 

Harry wouldn’t hear of that; he insisted that if Teddy could endure it, the least he could do was be there to comfort him. I confess that I have no desire to watch your infant son transform in agony. Yet I can’t allow Harry to do this on his own. He is Teddy’s godfather, but I am his grandmother. We are his parents. In effect, we are his mother and father. It is my duty to be with them both.

 

10 May 1998  
All settled. Tomorrow we all go to Hogwarts in the afternoon. Poppy is setting up a nursery space. Harry is reluctant to leave the house, but Poppy insisted. She didn’t have to say flat out that she was putting her career on the line by doing this illicitly. Instead she reminded Harry that it would be wise, in the event of a transformation, or simply of something unexpected, like an adverse reaction to the potion, to be in an infirmary. Harry conceded. Certainly, I feel safer knowing that Poppy will have all of her supplies on hand in order to manage any eventuality.

Since the plan was made to go to Hogwarts, Harry’s been restless. He paces constantly with Teddy, babbling that he won’t let anything happen to him into his ear while Teddy wails. I have to excuse myself often; it shreds my insides wondering if you might have come home if Harry, or Remus—if anyone—had been so vigilant about protecting you.

 

11 May 1998  
He’s not infected.

All three of us maintained, of course, that we didn’t believe him to be, but it’s still a colossal relief.

I know intellectually that this is wonderful news—news worth celebrating. But I can’t muster up any desire to celebrate. That said, I cannot deny that I am glad not to have full moon duty added to the list of obligations that I cannot shirk no matter how much I would like to. 

So yes, it is a relief. When the moon had been up for several minutes, Poppy smiled and pulled Harry into a hug. He seemed caught off guard, but he let her embrace him without complaint. He and I both expressed our gratitude for what she had done for Teddy, and for us. She gave Teddy a charcoal based potion to soak up and clear the Wolfsbane from his body—simply a precaution with his tiny, fragile system. 

Before we left Poppy gave Teddy a routine check-up. He should have had one when he was born, but as we were in hiding we just had to hope all was well. She asked some questions about Teddy and, unfortunately, about what we’d been feeding him. Harry didn’t know how to answer. To be honest, I’m not sure if he’s even given a thought to where the milk in Teddy’s bottles comes from. I couldn’t lie to Teddy’s Medi-Witch. Plus, I didn’t want to turn it into a big deal, so I just told them. Poppy advised me of what I already know: your milk can only be replicated so many times before the nutrients are diluted. I thought it might disturb Harry to find out that we’re still using your breast milk after so many days have passed, but he seemed more contemplative than anything.

Poppy offered to take care of Teddy’s routine check-ups as well. Harry quickly agreed, then looked at me contritely, as if to apologise for accepting without asking me first. As if I mind. I’m thankful to him for being around to make these decisions. 

 

12 May 1998  
It seems to me that it should feel lighter on this side of the full moon, good news in hand. It doesn’t. 

Harry’s been here for nearly a fortnight. In the first days, first weeks, the way he clung to Teddy didn’t strike me as odd: he wants to prove he’s committed to raising Teddy. But he’s got the hang of nappies and burping and inside voices and the other basics now. At first we were both just reacting to all of Teddy’s immediate needs—he’s a newborn, for fuck’s sake; he doesn’t leave time for us to overthink anything—and I didn’t have a spare moment to realise that Harry seems to be… hiding behind Teddy. That’s not to say that Harry’s care is disingenuous. But with the gaps in his parenting knowledge slowly being filled and the potential werewolf crisis averted, he still clings to the boy. It didn’t occur to me before that Teddy might somehow comfort Harry as much as Harry comforts him.

It’s hard to watch someone else—someone who’s not you—try to soothe Teddy, rock him, gently breathe ‘shhhh’s and ‘it’s okay’s into his little ears, change him, feed him. Feed him your milk.

I’m still duplicating the milk that you left for Teddy when you went to Hogwarts, but of course, we can’t keep doing that much longer.

 

13 May 1998  
Harry has unknowingly claimed your dad’s armchair, the same one he sat in when he came here and told me you’d never come home. He and Teddy sit there while Teddy naps and Harry catches forty winks between Teddy’s bouts of wailing. Harry keeps Teddy curled up on his chest. Teddy’s still so small. 

Your dad used to nap with you in that chair. The leather is well worn from your love-ins. It hurts to see it occupied again by a man and child, especially one that looks so much like you. But what can I do? Dump them out of it? Bar Harry from using it? Throw it out? ~~I just wish it were you in that chair. It makes me feel sick, but sometimes I can’t help wishing I could trade him~~

It’s odd, but it’s not so much Teddy’s own features that remind me of you, but the way they are constantly in motion. Teddy’s always shifting, hair moving between colours indecisively, limbs stretching out and then shortening again, testing their limits, facial features morphing, mostly between yours and Remus’s. 

He shifts even more than you did at his age, but you were never so troubled. With you and Remus suddenly gone after spending the first weeks of his life with you both all to himself day and night, how could he not feel insecure now?—unstable?

 

14 May 1998  
Teddy’s been crying a little less the past two days. But the peace was too good to last. An owl came for Harry, forwarded from Grimmauld Place. It was from Narcissa’s solicitor. He wrote to request Harry act as a character witness in her upcoming trial. The Wizengamot is clearly wasting no time. 

To my great surprise, Harry’s agreed to write a letter on her behalf, but doesn’t wish to appear in court. I am sure there are a multitude of very good reasons for that, but I feel sure it comes down to not wanting to part from Teddy—he can’t wear him like a shield while testifying before the Wizengamot. I can’t imagine what Harry has to say that could possibly contribute to Narcissa’s defence. I don’t know how someone his age can muster that much mercy for the wife of one of his fiercest persecutors.

 

17 May 1998  
Teddy’s back to testing the limits of his lung capacity. Harry is so patient with him, but after a couple of hours of bouncing him and trying to soothe him in the sitting room today I heard Harry bellow at Teddy to stop. Of course, Teddy didn’t. I crept downstairs, just to check on things. I peeked into the sitting room and saw them both sobbing in your dad’s chair. Harry was making quiet apologies between heaving breaths. I couldn’t bring myself to chide him for screaming. He obviously knows it won’t do. And Circe knows I did the same thing more than once with you. Your dad never screamed (you got your temperament from him, thank goodness), and he was livid with me for doing it. It didn’t help my frazzled nerves to be scolded, though. And judging by what I’ve seen the last fortnight, Harry’s nerves aren’t frazzled; they are bloody shot.

And, most importantly, Harry is doing his best. He spends his days with Teddy in the house. He rarely puts Teddy down, not in the crib, not to loll around on the floor. He prefers to hold Teddy, to switch him back and forth from hip to hip and walk about, up and down the stairs, from room to room, resuming their favourite spot in your dad’s chair whenever Teddy seems on the precipice of sleep. 

And he’s still full of questions about parenting. I never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d be playing house with a seventeen-year-old boy. He’s not a natural. He still needs a few tries before he gets Teddy’s swaddling clothes wrapped smoothly and tightly enough. He’s still so nervous about accidentally pricking Teddy he pins his nappies manually instead of by magic. I have to remind him that Teddy needs burping. But Harry never flinches when Teddy drools on him, or covers his back in sick. He doesn’t make a fuss about shitty nappies or getting pissed on. And he’s deadly serious about Teddy’s safety. For all his fumbling he never needs reminding to test the temperature of your milk on his arm before feeding Teddy. And he’s got Teddy in his arms so often and sticks so close when he doesn’t that I never worry about Teddy rolling off of the changing table or or the sofa and hitting his head. Teddy is safe with Harry.

And me? Am I doing my best?

 

20 May 1998  
Finally went out today. Errands needed running. I went grocery shopping and picked up some new clothes for Teddy. I can’t believe how much he’s grown already. Time has no respect.

I asked Harry if he’d like to come, or if he wanted to do it himself—just to get out for a bit, to have a moment to himself. He looked sick at the prospect. I worry about him. Parenting is hard at the best of times, but Harry didn’t have nine months to reckon with the idea. What’s more, I think he’s worried that if he leaves Teddy alone he’s in dereliction of his duty somehow. I keep reminding myself that Harry had no model of good parenting in his formative years. I know, I know, armchair therapist. But Harry’s abandonment issues are as plain as the nose on his face. I just hope he realises before too long that alone time does not a negligent parent make. Nor constant proximity a good one. 

I think I might have a look for some of our old baby books tomorrow. I couldn’t ask my mother or aunts or grandmothers for advice—the very idea is drôle. And your gran had a lot of loving advice to share, but not much of it pertained to how to deal with your baby morphing her legs and stomach so that her nappies alternately slid off, or buckled under the pressure, or changing the colour of her hair in public, or transforming her nose or eyes or lips to mimic those of strangers on the street with particularly eye-catching features… Of course, we never found advice about any of that in any book, but Harry might still find some more information helpful. And you know how your dad was about getting rid of anything. If I know him, those books will be packed away in a box in the attic. There are probably some of your books and clothes and toys that Teddy could make use of.

Then again, who am I to offer Harry advice? I’m all the mother Teddy has now, yet he spends the lion’s share of his time in the arms of a teenager. 

 

23 May 1998  
I went into the attic today. It took me a couple of days just to work myself up to it. When I finally got up there I peeked into a bunch of boxes and eventually stumbled upon one with some of your old things. I pulled out some of your old clothes and plush animals and smelled them like an utter fool. They didn’t smell of you. They smelled of dust and cardboard. I put them back and hid out up there until I stopped sobbing. It’s irrational and probably unkind, but I can’t bring these things downstairs. I can’t put Teddy in your clothes and give him your toys and read him your books. I just can’t.

 

24 May 1998  
Some news in the _Prophet_ today. Your aunt Narcissa’s trial date has been set for next week. I haven’t been paying much attention to the paper, but seeing my estranged sister’s face splashed across the front page of the paper on top of the growing stack did draw my attention. According to the paper, the Wizengamot are rushing cases to trial, and there is speculation about the potential consequences of handling such serious charges with haste.

I don’t know what to feel about your aunt, who never deigned to meet you, facing charges of treason, along with a host of aiding and abetting charges for crimes carried out in her home, if the paper can be trusted. Truth be told, I haven’t been feeling much of anything since Harry gave me the news. My chest physically aches, but I couldn’t tell you what emotion I’m feeling. What do you feel when the only living family members left to you are Death Eaters, collaborators and Muggles that you can’t even tell how your husband and daughter died?

 

25 May 1998  
Harry brought up the milk issue today. I think he’s been sitting on it since Poppy asked about it, actually. He seems uneasy about feeding Teddy your milk. I’m not sure whether he’s more concerned about the nutrient depletion or disturbed by the fact that it’s _yours_. I suppose it is a melancholy thought: a departed mother nursing her son. But Teddy deserves whatever you can give him. You deserve to contribute to making your son hearty and hale. And anyway, I’ve retreated so far from my feelings that I don’t have a good sense of where replicating your milk lands on the horror spectrum. 

As much as it pains me to think about it the implications, your milk won’t do much longer. I’m fairly sure that the continuous replications will have diluted the nutrition of the milk you left behind already, but the thought that it’ll soon be nothing but opaque, nutritionless fluid—not even water—is dreadful. I’ll have to visit the apothecary soon; I can’t cling to this last bit of you, can’t keep imagining you’re here, raising your boy like you should be—not at the cost of malnourishing Teddy. And even if I wanted to, Harry would stop me.

Harry got a package by owl this afternoon and has been looking cagey ever since. He hasn’t been communicating much with anyone aside from Teddy and me. I’ve seen him send a scant handful of owls since he’s been here—to Hermione Granger in Australia and Ron Weasley, who’s living with one of his brothers—but he hasn’t seen anyone aside from Teddy and I in weeks. Everytime Teddy wakes from a nap crying, Harry runs to him and they clutch one another for dear life. I want to caution Harry against pouring all of his love into one person, against making one person his whole focus, against using Teddy’s care as an excuse not to consider his own, not to face the world. But how can I, when I’m using Harry’s tutelage in the same way?

 

26 May 1998  
I went round the shops and bought a milk alternative potion. Today Teddy will taste milk that’s not yours for the first time. I could have brewed the potion at home, of course, but ever since you left for Hogwarts I find I’d rather drop myself in the sitting room to half-read the paper and not-really-supervise Harry and Teddy. 

It’s not that I’ve been doing nothing. I’m doing most of the domestic magic—the cooking, the cleaning and so on. I teach Harry bits and bobs as I go (the lad’s got a knack for domestic charms), but he is mostly occupied with Teddy. That’s easier for me. That’s what I can do. It’s hard to hold Teddy, while I reprimand myself for not wanting, to feel his body changing shape in my arms, like yours did. It’s hard when it’s not you. I couldn’t keep you alive and now I can’t even relish holding my only grandson. What kind of mother to him does that make me?

 

27 May 1998  
I don’t pretend to know Harry well, but he wears his emotions on his sleeve, so you’ll forgive me for suspecting that he’s got a doozy on his mind. 

Whatever it is, he had a welcome distraction this evening. Teddy smiled! And I mean a proper smile—I’m not having any of that gas rubbish. He looked so perfectly happy. Not content, not satisfied, not doing okay. He looked happy as a bloody clam, as a niffler in a treasure trove. His lips turned up. His eyes were bright. Harry burst into tears and apologised for it. Teddy’s wailing spells had Harry worried that he was never going to be able to take care of Teddy properly. He cry-laughed pretty hysterically for a few minutes, which kept Teddy beaming. And for a few minutes my heart felt easy. I think I smiled too, unforced.

How can someone so small make everything bad fade into the background? Shame it only works for a few minutes. 

 

28 May 1998  
The saying ‘mother knows best’ applies, I learned over lunch, even when the mother in question is not one’s own. Harry’s had an increasingly dodgy look about him for days, and at the table this afternoon it seemed like he was positively choking down his cheese toastie. After getting through half the sandwich he blurted out that he’d ordered a book—a book with a recipe for a potion that magically induces lactation, to be precise.

He wants to nurse Teddy. 

I explained to him that milk alternative potions are thoroughly nutritious and completely safe, just like Muggle formula. But he’d already dug his heels in before he even brought it up with me, I could tell. Reading between the lines, I gather he thinks this is something he can offer Teddy, as though he hasn’t been offering the boy something every waking hour since he arrived on our doorstep. 

We talked it over. I asked him how informative the book had been about the benefits of milk alternative potions, on the one hand, and the effects of of milk production and nursing on the body, on the other. He admitted that the book stated that potions are just as nutritious, and that it lacked much information on male lactation, but insisted that he doesn’t care about sore nipples or leaks. He tried to joke that it’s not as though he’ll be spending time apart from Teddy in any case. Neither of us laughed. He told me he’s not ashamed to take care of Teddy. I believe that. But you know what else I believe? That the only way he knows how to deal with something is with his body, to put it on the line. I don’t think he knows any other solutions. I don’t think he feels he has anything else to offer. 

In any case, I assured him that many parents use milk alternative potions, and that doing so is not a mark of holding anything back from the baby.

He asked me how I am at brewing. I told him I’m exceptional, but that this kind of potion is readily available on the shelf on any apothecary—that he can get one today. He asked me to do it.

So off I go. The issue of milk itself aside, I know I am not doing Harry any favours by enabling his retreat from the world outside our house.

 

29 May 1998  
The cageyness of last week pales in comparison to the bashfulness of this morning. Harry sat down for a cuppa with Teddy in his lap. He always waits until it’s lukewarm to drink it—afraid he’ll spill it on Teddy. An embarrassed silence stretched out while he waited for the tea to cool. 

I reminded him that people have been nursing babies since our earliest days. He blushed but things felt a little more comfortable after that. Once we were fortified with tea, I asked him if he’d nursed yet, and he shook his head. We moved to the sitting room and I showed him how to hold Teddy, how to guide Teddy’s mouth to his chest, how to squeeze his chest to make the nipple easier for Teddy to latch onto, to make sure he has the nipple far enough in his mouth. I tried not to think about your dad helping me figure it out, telling me that the book said to squeeze my breast so the baby could wrap their lips around it “like a burger” (because every person who’s just carried a human around inside them for nine months and then delivered birth to said human enjoys being compared to meat… I ask you…). A benefit of these potions is that the milk comes easily. 

I left Harry and Teddy in your dad’s armchair and came upstairs to write this out. Everything is changing. And what’s not changing is taking on new meanings. 

It’s not fair. It should be your dad in that chair, looking on peacefully, happily, while you nurse Teddy. 

 

30 May 1998  
The universe is flaunting its grim sense of humour. The _Prophet_ reported today on the commencement of Narcissa’s trial. An owl this afternoon then brought a letter from the DMLE inquiring about my willingness to act as Narcissa’s… what?—guardian? Supervisor? warden?—while she’s on probation. She’s been convicted of several counts of collaboration, but the Wizengamot took Harry’s letter into consideration and showed leniency on the grounds that her decisions were made and actions (or inactions, as it were) were carried out under duress. 

Thanks to Harry’s letter, Narcissa can avoid Azkaban if an appropriate witch or wizard can be found to vouch for her and offer her a fixed address to which she must stay confined to serve a year’s probation under house arrest. 

The Manor and all of the Malfoy assets were seized as soon as the Aurors had Narcissa, Lucius and Draco in custody. My sister, who told me she never wanted to see me again if I “chased a Muggleborn,” who looked down her nose on your dad’s blood—on your blood—is now homeless and in need of help. 

She attached a cursory note to the DMLE owl. It read: “Please.”

Narcissa will be held in Auror custody until they receive my response. If I decline, she will be moved to Azkaban as they search for “alternate arrangements.” But who on earth would invite her into their home, except, perhaps, those wishing to do her harm? All of her high society allies are either in her place or worse, or they’ve fled the country, or they’ve stayed carefully neutral and will not wish to cede that position by extending mercy to a Malfoy. I’m already to blame for you. Can my conscience bear it if I turn away one of my three living relatives?

I don’t have a choice. Life’s got a sick sense of humour, you know that? It offers me my once beloved sister twenty-five years too late, and all because her erstwhile cohorts murdered the niece she never stooped to meet.

I have to talk to Harry.

 

You never told me much about Harry—you, the consummate professional. You were a hell of an Auror, and that scared the shit out of me every day. I was so angry when you applied. I was furious when they accepted you. I was livid with your father for encouraging your adventurous streak when you were little, and doubly so for supporting you in applying to the Aurors against my wishes. I wanted you safe at home. And you’re not and I regret not praising your work when I had the chance, not acknowledging how much brass it took for you to chase such lofty dreams and how you worked your hands to the bone to excel in a boys’ club. I’ll tell you here and now though: I never doubted your abilities. I always respected your professionalism. You were always cool under fire and never one to have loose lips; you kept people’s secrets safe. You protected them. But who was to protect you? I hoped so desperately that you and Remus would keep each other safe at Hogwarts.

But I digress. You never told me what a remarkable boy Harry was. He’s a remarkable young man now, too. I told him about Narcissa’s plight and he insisted that I not turn her away on his account. Part of me had hoped that he’d say no; that he’d draw a line in the sand and threaten to walk if I let Narcissa walk across it. 

Harry’s… well... he’s full of grace, isn’t he? Teddy needs that around him right now. I don’t have any to offer. 

 

1 June 1998  
I owled Narcissa’s probation officer and she is set to arrive sometime this morning. Harry’s been occupying your room, of course, so Narcissa will be in the spare room. When your father and I needed a new, safe house after the Battle of the Seven Potters, we bought the first Muggle place we found with extra rooms. We knew the odds were good that someone would need them as the war carried on. We’d no idea at the time that you’d move in, pregnant.

What kind of justice was it to have you move back home to me after seven years—seven years of worrying that you’d die in a training exercise, or a raid or a chase or a duel—only for you to be snatched away again after a few short months? The same kind of justice that would have a room once intended as a refuge for Muggle-borns and half-bloods on the run occupied by the wife of one of their most violent oppressors, I imagine.

 

Narcissa arrived just before lunch. She came with the clothes on her back, no wand and a Gringotts statement showing that she’d received a small sum from the Ministry seizure of her assets that can only be used to cover the costs of very frugal living until her probation ends and she is able to join the workforce. 

Imagining Narcissa getting a job is the closest I’ve been to laughing in a month. 

I showed her to her room. She thanked me. I told her that Harry and Teddy are also living here. She had nothing to say about that. Well, I suspect that she did, but she kept it to herself. I thought that she’d hermit herself away, at least while she got settled, but she’s restless. She followed me into the kitchen and poked around while I made tuna and cucumber sandwiches, she opened and closed drawers and cupboards until she found utensils and silverware and napkins to set the table. Harry looked amused at the carefully folded napkins when he sat down for lunch but he said nothing. Instead he held out his hand to shake my sister’s and thanked her. Remarkable lad. 

Teddy was asleep when we ate lunch. It was quiet. Narcissa offered to do the washing up, but, of course, she doesn’t have a wand. Harry asked if she’s ever used a cloth and washing up liquid. (I laughed silently.) She admitted that she had not, but asked to be shown. They did the dishes together.

 

2 June 1998  
Before bed last night I brought Narcissa some of my things—pyjamas, some pants and slacks, socks, jumpers and a set of outer robes—to tide her over until I can go shopping. I’ve been wearing Muggle clothes with casual robes (or none at all) since your father and I began courting—infinitely more practical. I expected her to turn her nose up, but Narcissa accepted everything graciously. I imagine she’s not keen to offend the person keeping her out of Azkaban. Still, I was surprised not to hear a peep of protest about wearing Muggle clothing. She didn’t even complain that I had no brassieres to offer her. No point there, with me as flat as a board. Even if I had any to lend, they’d never fit. She’d have to resize them, and that mucks up the underwire. I asked her to make a list of what she needs and I’ll head out tomorrow to get her clothes, toiletries and so on. The terms of her house arrest confine her to the property. Finding myself playing errand boy for Narcissa… it should rankle. Seeing her, being forced to look at her, to care for her, it should be too much. But somehow, I find myself at least partially relieved to have a new distraction.

I invited Harry and Teddy out with me. Harry declined. I suggested, subtly—don’t you dare laugh, I can too be subtle—that it might do him good to start getting out a bit. We could get a buggy and he could take Teddy out walking, perhaps with his friends. I told him he needn’t hesitate to have them round ours. He said that Ron is really busy at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes these days, helping and supporting his elder brother, George, whose twin died at Hogwarts, and that he doesn’t want to intrude. I asked if there weren’t other friends he’s missing. He clutched Teddy to his chest and said he wasn’t interested in going out today. 

Harry and I may not be mutual confidants, but we can’t help getting to know each other a little better every day. Mostly we talk about Teddy. But it doesn’t take a deep emotional connection to know that the boy is hiding away in this house, behind Teddy. The precise nature of what he’s hiding from, I don’t know. It’s not my business. But with Harry’s history, I’m sure it doesn’t bear thinking about. But he’s not doing himself any favours trying to cope with the burden of his war wounds on his own—or worse, using Teddy’s care to pretend they don’t exist.

 

3 June 1998  
I went to M & S late yesterday to get Narcissa what she’d requested. When she was making up her list she asked about Muggle hygiene equipment. Harry talked her through tooth and hair brushes, razors, nail trimmers, q-tips, face cloths, tweezers and the like. In the end, he wrote the list for her. He didn’t mention tampons, but added them to the end of the list. I suppose he’s leaving _that_ explanation for me. 

When Narcissa was young I taught her all the usual spells for collecting and Vanishing menstrual blood. The same spells, more or less, that I taught you twenty years later. And here I am again. Hilarious, isn’t it, that marrying a Muggle is what got me tossed out of her good books, and now the knowledge I gained through that match is paying dividends for her?

Pardon me while I have a good laugh about that cosmic joke; I’ll only cry if I don’t.

 

4 June 1998  
Harry walked Narcissa through the steps to boiling the kettle and preparing a teapot sans magic this morning. He had her undivided attention, which I found interesting. But not as interesting as the state of her hair. She must not have the hang of the brush yet. That, or she’s too scared to try it. Either way, she’s attempting to carry it off and it might have been worth having her come just for this.

In all seriousness, though, I took Harry aside this afternoon while Narcissa was in the shower and reminded him that he owes her nothing; it’s not his responsibility to prepare her for a magicless life. He assured me that he doesn’t mind, that it’s nothing to show her the ropes, that he owes her so much more, that he’d do it even if he owed her nothing. I confess myself curious about what there is between them. I told him I am awed by the mercy and compassion he is capable of showing. He shrugged that off. Perhaps, though, if he is still capable of giving mercy, compassion—grace—after all that life has put him through, I can find these things within myself again also.

 

5 June 1998  
I found Narcissa loafing on the sofa this morning. I commented that her zest for Muggle domesticity was short lived. She asked me if I wanted her to make a pot of tea. I headed back to the kitchen and made it myself. Harry and Teddy emerged not long after. Harry asked after Narcissa and took her a cuppa. Turns out it’s Draco’s birthday and my sister is using it as an excuse to mope. I don’t know what her problem is. He’s still here.

 

6 June 1998  
This morning Narcissa made what felt like a capital ‘p’ Point of brewing tea and toasting bread (under Harry’s supervision). Your aunt is pretending otherwise, but she is afraid of the Muggle toaster—each time the toast pops up, she startles. The volume of the rats’ nest at the back of her neck is also increasing in size. 

Perhaps these little amusements—these petty amusements—are what life is offering me as a balm for my wounds. 

 

9 June 1998  
The four of us seem to be falling into a routine in a way Harry, Teddy and I never did before Narcissa got here. To be fair to Harry and I, we were fully in crisis mode, simply reacting to Teddy’s immediate needs in the wake of your departure, until shortly before your aunt made her entrance. 

Narcissa has assumed responsibility for tea and toast. I’m able to have a lie in now, which I sorely need after so many months of poor sleep. Even before you left, sleep was hardly forthcoming in Teddy’s first weeks, and it’s not as though I was sleeping soundly before that—lying awake trying to conceive of new wards to experiment with the following day, or else waking up each time the house creaked as the night air cooled it down.

I wake in time to eat with everyone, and Narcissa does the washing up while Harry and I give Teddy his bath. It’s funny, but even though Harry is so determined to keep Teddy safe, I sense there is a part of him that doesn’t quite trust himself to do the job. He’s especially anxious about bath time, worried that Teddy will come to harm in the slippery water. Again I wonder if some books with parenting tips might do him good...

After that we tend to convene in the sitting room. Harry lolls around with Teddy on the floor, playing with his tiny toes and conjuring stars and bubbles from his wand and trailing them over Teddy’s head, telling him what a good lad he is, how good he is at making faces. And it’s true—no baby has ever been more adept at pulling faces than Teddy; he’s matched only by you at his age. I take my place on the sofa and write to you. Sometimes, when I don’t have much to write, I join the lads on the floor and look on at their bonding. Narcissa often does, gently asking permission to take Teddy for a moment, pulling him into her arms and bouncing him on her crossed knees for a few minutes before handing him back to Harry.

It’s disarming how good Narcissa is with Teddy. Not that she’s intrusive. She clearly enjoys his presence, but never hangs onto him for too long. It’s obvious to anyone who’s parented that her expertise is in enjoying the baby and then passing it along to a house-elf or a nanny, or, in this case, a clingy youth. I think it might bother Harry if he weren’t just as concerned with getting Teddy back into his own arms as Narcissa is with getting him out of her tangled hair once she’s had her fill. 

It occurs to me that Narcissa has never seen me playing the role of mother before. Here we are, women in our forties. One with a daughter who’ll never come home, and one with a son facing charges of treason. At least I can be proud of my child, even if I’m still mad as hell that you left that night. Still, I failed to keep you safe, but at least I can say that I did the right thing following my heart to your dad, and that together we raised you to know right from wrong, not to consider yourself above others. I’ve never once regretted your dad or you. Though I do regret that you were so brave that I couldn’t convince you to keep out of harm’s way. You’re so much braver than your dad and I were—keeping our heads down for so long while the war was brewing. I don’t think bravery can be taught, though. I think your courage was all your own.

What a sap I’ve become. And I always prided myself on being so level-headed, so pragmatic. When I’d try that line on your dad, he’d usually ask if he was speaking to the woman who did a bunk on her aristocratic family to marry the twentieth-century equivalent of the stable boy. 

But these are how our days go. I make lunch. We eat together and Narcissa does the washing up again. If errands need running, I do them, generally after some light needling that Harry and Teddy should accompany me. Narcissa has joined me in my efforts on that score. Throughout the day we each take our turn in the loo, leaving Teddy with the other two while we have a moment’s peace in a quiet tub or the shower. When Harry has his turn, the bathroom is silent. When Narcissa first noticed this, we shared a knowing look and how odd it was to find myself sharing anything with her beyond the practical, the necessary. It’s shocking how easy it is to fall into old habits with people with whom we share history, even when we don’t want to. Of course, generally when a seventeen-year-old boy excuses himself to a silent bathroom it’s for a bit of harmless fun. In this case, I rather think the opposite it true. I think Harry uses his alone time to cry, maybe to wail. I mean, I do. Narcissa, of course, doesn’t have the luxury of a Silencio. I’ve thought about offering, but it seems uncouth—unkind, even, to draw attention, not only to her, but to Harry and myself. And besides, she’s come up with her own solution—she favours a shower. Any tears she needs to shed are drowned out by the running water.

After dinner Narcissa practices her Muggle cleaning routine again and it’s back to the sitting room until bed—Harry and Teddy in your dad’s armchair. Narcissa has dipped her toes in the water of Muggle literature—most of our bookshelf is occupied by novels. She’s just started _Murder on the Orient Express_. 

I’ve taken to reading the paper. Sure, the _Prophet_ is the worst kind of rag, but I find reading about the political fallout, about the Ministry’s—and advocacy groups’—attempts to rebuild are as close as I can get to participating right now. Draco’s name is mentioned occasionally, Lucius’s far more often.

The only time Narcissa and I spend alone together, aside from the times Harry takes his turn in the bathroom, is when Harry excuses himself throughout the day to nurse. Narcissa doesn’t know about that, of course.

We don’t say much to each other when it’s just the two of us—my sister and me. It’s easier when Harry and Teddy are here. Insipid conversations about how much Teddy’s sleeping and how good babies smell and how many different hair colours he’s got in his repertoire flow automatically.

 

10 June 1998  
I’ve seen it all now. I woke up a bit early this morning and found myself faced with the sight of Harry Potter combing out my sister’s hair at the kitchen table and explaining the importance of starting from the ends with long hair, rather than brushing from root to tip. Narcissa was wincing as Harry worked out the rat’s nest, but she tried to keep still—she had Teddy. I will cherish forever the look on her face when Harry suggested that shorter hair is always an option for those who don’t wish to contend with tangles. Harry quickly added that plaiting also helps and gestured to his own hair. He asked if she’d like to learn to plait her hair manually. Thus here we are; a bunch of shut-ins literally reduced to braiding one another’s hair.

Narcissa looked a bit… wistful? when Harry took Teddy from her. I joined her and finished up with the tea.

 

13 June 1998  
Heading out shortly; Poppy’s giving Teddy a looking over today. Standard at two months—nothing to worry about. She offered to come here, but since there are still no students at Hogwarts, I asked if we could meet at Hogwarts again. I didn’t tell Harry—he’d only see it for what it is: me forcing him out of the house. 

Everything with Teddy is tickety boo. Poppy, bless her, asked after Harry and myself. We both lied, said everything’s fine. I told her that Harry’s been more tired since he started nursing Teddy. Poppy took that completely in stride; she asked if his nipples were sore, and he admitted they were. She gave him a topical potion for that. She also said he is looking a bit thinner than she’d like, and also underrested. She ordered him to eat some more healthful fats and get a bit more exercise to help his sleep more deeply between feedings. 

I don’t think Harry was best pleased with me for telling Poppy about his nursing, but, to his credit, I think he just doesn’t want anyone fussing over him. Just because he doesn’t want to shout about it or do it in front of Narcissa doesn’t mean he’s embarrassed of nursing per se.

Any teenage surliness that I endure will, however, be worth it, because Poppy ordered sunshine and fresh air for all three of us—said we were all looking a touch peaked. To be honest with you, I don’t particularly mind getting out of the house. Running errands alone has given me a bit of quiet time. I can’t say I enjoy it—I tend to get flooded with thoughts of you and your dad when I do. But still, it’s almost like a break to mope alone without worrying that my permanently dour expression is going to give Teddy a complex. 

Narcissa asked after Teddy’s health when we returned. I told her all was well and Harry all but flagellated himself for “neglecting” Teddy’s need for fresh air. I told Harry the blame was at least half mine, and that we could go out for a walk today. He was visibly torn between his lack of desire to leave the house and his impulse to put Teddy first. Teddy won out in the end, I am happy, though not surprised, to say. 

I _do_ fear that Harry is indeed being neglectful, albeit of himself. 

We don’t have a buggy, so I’ll have to get one soon. Today, Harry and I took turns carrying Teddy as we strolled around the neighbourhood. Harry’s eyes were working overtime, darting around, scanning the area. Poor dear. He hasn’t learned to live in peacetime, and he won’t unless he sets himself to the task properly.

Worries about Harry aside—once a worrywart, always a worrywart, it seems—not even I could find fault with the walk in and of itself. Mostly when I’ve gone out on errands I’ve Apparated straight to a secluded spot at the end of the high street, or else right into Diagon. I haven’t gotten to know Penzance at all. It’s actually quite picturesque here, at least from what I saw during our brief walk. I never really noticed when we moved in—the thing was done in an utter panic, so I think I can be excused for being a little unobservant. After all, I picked the place on the grounds that it was available and remote, without being so remote as to stick out. While I was signing the papers with the estate agent your dad was shrinking down our things and bringing them to Cornwall. 

Once we get a buggy, though, we can walk a bit longer, a bit farther, see more, breathe more sea air, soak in a little more vitamin D. Not even Harry can carry Teddy for indefinite periods. He’s growing everyday. I keep catching Harry rubbing at his hips and bending from side to side to stretch them out. 

 

15 June 1998  
I saw a lovely buggy yesterday at a car boot sale that Harry, Teddy and I passed by on our walk. It was a bit old fashioned, though, and Harry was worried that it might give out while Teddy was in it. We could reinforce it with charms, of course. Harry wasn’t into that. I suggested that Harry could head to town and pick out a buggy he found suitable. He said he’d just keep carrying Teddy—that he didn’t mind carrying him the whole time if I’m not up to it (I’m only forty-eight, thank you very much!). I reminded him that Teddy’s only going to grow faster and faster, and before long Harry just won’t be able to carry him for long distances, no matter how much he may want to.

 

17 June 1998  
A major success on the homefront today: Harry went into town to buy a buggy and left Teddy home with me, at my request. I pointed out that it would be difficult to conduct a thorough inspection of the goods while keeping Teddy in his arms. Harry reluctantly agreed. So he’s out now, on his own and apart from Teddy for the first time in a month and a half.

When he left, Narcissa set down _They Do It With Mirrors_ to remark that it’s promising. She asked if she could take Teddy for a while. I was hesitant, but, despicable me, I succumbed to the chance to spend a few minutes to myself. I left them in the sitting room and headed to take a unnecessary but restorative second bath of the day.

When I came down I couldn’t find Teddy or Narcissa and immediately cursed myself for leaving him with her—as if she’s ever done an honest day’s parenting in her life! I called their names and Narcissa called back. Turns out they were in the front garden. It’s tiny, and the place is a disaster, of course. Nothing’s been pulled, pruned, mowed or watered since we moved in. But there sat Narcissa with Teddy in her lap, reclining on some faded ratan chair she’d found. She’d taken care to pull it into the shade for Teddy, but kept her legs and bare feet in the sun. She apologised, said she’d called through the door that she was taking Teddy into the front garden. She admitted that she hadn’t been out of doors since her arrest. I accepted the apology, scooped Teddy up and sat down in the weeds. Narcissa pulled her chair into the sunshine and soaked it up. We were still out there when Harry returned pushing a thoroughly newfangled and, more importantly, fully assembled buggy.

 

21 June 1998  
It’s the summer solstice—longest day of the year. Do you remember when you had your goth phase and we took you to Stonehenge? It was hilarious—you were trying so hard to look cool and aloof, like you weren’t over the bloody moon to be there, to see the sun on the stones in the midsummer light, the way they were meant to be seen. You can cover the Hufflepuff in black, but the unbridled enthusiasm will out. 

Harry and I took Teddy on another walk today. They say is takes twenty-one days to establish a habit. How close are we now? We came back to find Narcissa outside again. None of us can be arsed to whip the garden into shape, but we’ve been spending a lot of time out there. Afternoons in the sitting room have turned into afternoons soaking in the sun. Harry is looking better for it—more colour in his cheeks. We sat outside until Harry moved to take Teddy inside for a feeding. Narcissa, in a tone of faux offhandedness of which mother herself would have approved, said she hoped that Harry did not feel the need to nurse in private on her account. Harry blushed a bit—the lad could blush for England—and made an excuse about the neighbours. Narcissa got out of her chair and pulled it up against the fence where Harry and Teddy would be shielded from the prying eyes of passers by. Harry thanked her and fed Teddy (though the blush took a while to resolve).

 

25 June 1998  
Hardly anything worthy of comment the last few days, except Teddy has developed a penchant for blond hair. It stills turns magenta sometimes, but less and less often. Narcissa hasn’t said a word, but she does get a maddeningly smug look on her face whenever it changes to match her own.

Harry’s been asking more and more questions about early childhood development. He wants to know when Teddy might crawl, or walk or talk. I told him that all of that is a ways off. I advised him to enjoy having a stationary baby that can’t sass him while it lasts. 

He asked me what I want Teddy to call me when he does start talking—what he should call me when he’s speaking to Teddy. And there’s a question. Who am I? Who do I want to be? Nana? Gran? Grandma Tonks? Can I act as his mother in all but name?

I wonder what your son’s first word will be. That’s months away, of course. Yours was “fuck”, to your dad’s great amusement, your gran’s extreme horror and my utter lack of surprise. “Da” and “mum” weren’t far behind, though. Mum and dad won’t be anywhere near Teddy’s first words—those words are rarely uttered in the house; there’s no occasion for them. 

I am filled with a blend of horror and relief. Teddy won’t learn these words early on, and so he won’t learn to call me “mum.” I don’t think I could bear it.

I told Harry people are endlessly writing books about raising babies, and kids and teenagers and even re-parenting oneself as an adult. Harry laughed. But maybe we should make a pit stop in one of the bookshops on the main drag so that he can fill his boots with dozens of contradictory opinions on child rearing. I wouldn’t want him to be denied that rite of passage.

 

1 July 1998  
I haven’t been writing as much. I looked at the calendar today and noticed it was the first of the month, and thought I’d better write. I think of you everyday, you know. Even when I don’t write. I can’t help it. 

We’re all soldiering on here. Literally, in Harry’s case. I thought initially that he just needed a bit of time, a few weeks, to settle into not living in mortal peril. The longer we live together, though, the more I see that he can’t help but be a soldier. It’s been drilled into him. When we’re on our walks, or even in the relative peace of our front garden, he’s constantly on guard—constantly vigilant, as your mentor would say. His eyes flit around the fence like it’s a perimeter. He responds in clipped tones to the strangers who greet us when we stroll around Penzance, like he doesn’t know how to talk to civilians. You never got like that, even after years of active Auroring. I wonder if, despite all my protestations, you were the perfect Auror—if your humour, your exuberance, your levity, your zest for life, made you the perfect person to face down darkness. Sometimes we all must eat our words.

Narcissa fascinates me, try though I do not to be endeared. The plait that Harry taught her has become permanent, although she’s been doing it herself and it gets bedraggled—hair popping out all over the place—by lunch time. I never thought I’d see her look so utterly commonplace—all Muggle clothes and shabby plaits. I never thought she’d miss an opportunity to point out the “unnaturalness” of a man nursing—or the commonness of anyone nursing their own baby in the first place. I never thought she’d look wistfully at a babe, or stop herself short of reaching out for him out of empathy for the neuroses of a teenager. I never thought she’d find peace in a decrepit lawn chair surrounded by weeds. I never thought we’d be living together again. But, to be fair, I doubt she expected there’d ever come a time when she’d have to rely on the good grace of others just to live a life of half freedom. 

Then again, I never thought you’d be gone while I’m still here. And I thought I had at least another hundred and twenty years with your father. I suppose life surprises us all.

 

7 July 1998  
Narcissa received an owl from Draco yesterday. It arrived in the evening while we were in the sitting room (it’s been raining, so we’ve been cooped up, which seems to be ruffling all of our feathers now we’ve become used to being outside so much). She hasn’t mentioned Draco since his birthday. Harry asked her who the owl was from and the floodgates broke. She wept and debriefed us: Draco’s still being held in Azkaban pending trial, the prosecutors are taking their time building his case, and Lucius’s, because they are facing much more serious charges than she did, he doesn’t know when he’ll come to trial, but his court-appointed solicitor has advised that since the worst charges against him were carried out as a minor, he has a chance of dodging the worst. Still, Draco is not optimistic about the outcome. Narcissa blames herself for Draco’s situation; says she should have done more to protect him. I saw a look of consonance in Harry’s eyes as she spoke. It echoed what I felt in my chest. We all tried to cry quietly. It can’t be good for Teddy, to be reared by such sad, pathetic people. But we’re all he has.

 

8 July 1998  
After the deluge last night the sun beaming into my bedroom this morning was almost jarring, but the dry weather is good for walking. We’ve got a friendly rapport going with the neighbours who we see out and about, walking their dogs, following along behind their sprogs’ training bikes, power walking in groups. D’you know, I think the neighbours have me pegged as a cougar. They’re always pleasant enough, flirtatiously praising Harry for the way he dotes on Teddy (as though my parental labour is an unnoteworthy given). But behind these niceties are knowing glances and sardonic smirks in my direction. They aren’t wrong about how well Harry takes care of Teddy, of course. But if only they knew.

Today we walked into town and visited a bookstore. Harry perused the baby aisle, and I snagged some more Agatha Christies for Narcissa. I’m not sure whether I should be encouraging Harry because he’s here, in the storm, picking up some reading material all on his own steam, or if I should be worried that the only thing he wants to read about is babies. I asked if he wanted to get something to read for fun as well. He said he’s not much of a reader, usually.

 

13 July 1998  
More of the same around here. We putter around the garden between walks unless we get rained out. Narcissa’s already through _And Then There Were None_ and onto _Death on the Nile_. Harry’s been reading as well, while Teddy naps on a picnic blanket in the shade. He’s very inquisitive. When the books provide averages he wants to know if Narcissa and I feel they’re accurate. He worries about Teddy staying on schedule with developmental timelines. We tell him not to worry, that every baby is unique and that Teddy’s right on track anyway. I had hoped that more information would arm his with confidence, not more worries.

 

15 July 1998  
Narcissa brought up Harry’s birthday today—asked him what his plans are to celebrate the occasion. He said he hadn’t given it any thought, that he’d assumed it would be a moot point. He was joking, naturally, in the way that one must to lessen the hold our deepest pains have over us.

Narcissa rose to the occasion of lightening the mood and advised that that was all the more reason to celebrate. 

 

20 July 1998  
Narcissa has been carrying on a campaign to get Harry to agree to a birthday party. I expect she needs something to take her mind off of Draco. Or, she thinks she does. I could tell her from firsthand experience that all the distractions in the world only work until you’re in your bed at night, alone, with nothing but your thoughts.

Harry’s insisting he doesn’t want a party, that spending the day with Teddy and us is quite enough. He’s a stubborn one, but he’s never faced the relentless onslaught of a Black woman before. We’re like a dog with a bone. And, you know, despite all the years that separated Narcissa and me, I never forgot that we shared that trait. I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad one, as long as one knows when to drop the bone when its usefulness has ended. 

 

22 July 1998  
Bless him, he lasted a week. I’m going to teach him a couple of pumping charms so that he doesn’t have to nurse on the 31st.

 

23 July 1998  
After Narcissa’s persistence—to be fair, I can’t in truth say I didn’t support her in this, vocally: the lad needs to start interacting with people beyond this house—Harry agreed to invite a few friends round for his birthday. It was something of a compromise. Narcissa initially suggested Harry might like a “day off”—perhaps a trip round the pub to see his friends? Harry usually gets on with Narcissa very well (better, in fact, that I could ever have hoped…) but he balked at that and informed her roundly that Teddy is not a job, nor anything he needs a break from. We’ll see if he’s still singing that tune when the babe starts walking.

Anyway, Harry agreed to owl a few mates to come by to spend the day with him and Teddy and Narcissa and I at the house. Sweet lad. He sent off an owl after he put Teddy down for the night. I asked if he was copping out and only inviting one person. He laughed that off, said he wished he’d thought to do that, and admitted that he delegated the task of inviting his friends to Ron Weasley. 

 

27 July 1998  
It’s saleable entertainment watching your socialite aunt have a power struggle with Harry Potter over his birthday. She badgers him about preparing to receive guests, asks where he wants to hold the gathering and what he plans to serve. I admit, she’d done an admirable job of adapting to her life here, all things considered. Even all things unconsidered. But this must be her hard line: the duties of a gracious hostess are clearly too well ingrained in her to stay silent as Harry suggests they “hang out in the garden”—still overgrown, unmown, brown now, due to a dry spell.

I don’t give a damn where he holds the thing. I’m just thankful he’s agreed to do something—anything—remotely social. With people coming here, knowing Harry’s expecting me to visit with him and his mates, it almost feels like _I’m_ making progress too. What’s that saying? Those who can’t do admonish others hypocritically for not doing?

 

31 July 1998  
I’m knackered. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I am always knackered these days. I don’t have the energy to do much besides make supper and take shifts with Teddy when Harry’s arms need a break. But there’s something altogether different about the kind of knackered you feel after you’ve spent the day with a group of people compared with the kind of knackered you feel ~~after your only child~~ after wartime.

Ron carried out his assignment admirably and arrived with his brother George and sister Ginny, Molly and Arthur, as well as Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. No one snubbed Narcissa. Harry must have given Ron a heads up and asked him to pass it on. 

Harry and I transfigured the kitchen chairs into lawn chairs for the day, along with a crumbling birdbath. Molly brought a beautiful cake and George brought a case of Butterbeer. We ate (Narcissa and I had far more than our share of cake), drank and generally made merry—as merry as a bunch of survivors can. The garden’s small, so it was cramped, but it was a sunny day. It was nice. Neville offered Harry help with getting the garden in order. Luna said it suited Harry, who agreed that he liked it wild. As we lost the daylight, Narcissa begged a moment of Luna’s time, and they headed to the sitting room—no idea what that was about. Molly and Arthur and I headed inside for coffees with the transfigured chairs. Arthur praised Harry’s way with Teddy. Molly said how well we’re all doing in light of everything. We talked of lost children and cried into our mugs. We pulled ourselves together when the youngsters were forced inside by the chill.

The highlight of the party was when Teddy let out an unmistakable “goo!” Subsequent hours spent within everyone gooing over each other trying to get Teddy to do it again. 

Hermione sent Harry a parcel by way of Ron. The tag read: “Miss you. It’s books, Love Hermione.” Harry laughed—a real laugh—and thanked Ron for playing messenger. 

So it turns out Harry was right: he really didn’t need anything but his friends today (he did lament Hermione’s absence many times, and everyone agreed, while conceding that mending familial fences takes precedence). Watching the kind of affection they all have for him, how willing they all were to show up even after almost three months seeing neither hide nor hair of him—and with cake and drinks and high spirits! Well… I was happy for him, but it was a bittersweet feeling. Harry has a veritable community ready to show up for him—waiting for him to show up for himself. Every few minutes someone remembered to pass on greetings and best wishes from some friend or another. And here I am. Forty-eight. Family gone. Well, the family I wanted is gone. Now I’m left with a baby who’s not mine, a teenager who’s got a stronger connection with a convicted war criminal than he has with me, an estranged sister cum dependent and a nephew I’ve never met waiting, in all likelihood, to do hard time. 

I sound so ungrateful. I probably should feel lucky to have survived, to share a home with these people, to have the chance to mend my own familial fences, to have a newborn in my care, to be living with Harry Potter himself! I don’t feel lucky. What’s more, as days tick by and I find myself cracking small smiles, entertained by Narcissa’s continued, fruitless attempts to master the plait, chuckling over the looks the neighbours give Harry and me, I find these brief, fleeting moments of levity overwhelmed by the guilt that washes over me afterward. How dare I smile, or laugh when I’ll never see you, never see your dad, again—when Teddy will grow up with only secondhand notions of your love?

 

6 August 1998  
Harry and I had our first row today. I suppose it was a matter of time. Since before he began nursing, Harry’s just let Teddy fall asleep whenever and wherever it happens. Teddy’s four months old now, though… I mentioned as much, and said that soon it would be time to start getting Teddy used to falling asleep on his own, to getting him onto a nice schedule. Narcissa agreed, said we ought not to wait too long, otherwise he’d find himself with a toddler keeping him up in the night and waking him up before dawn.

Harry worries that if we leave Teddy in his crib, he’ll cry. Narcissa and I tried to explain that a few tears while he gets used to falling asleep are okay. Harry was, in a word, horrified. Said we couldn’t be serious about leaving a baby to cry himself to sleep. You were a champion sleeper, of course—natural consequence of being as energetic as you were, but once I started putting you to bed, you’d only cry a little before settling in to sleep. I told Harry so, and Narcissa said she never got Draco to sleep on a schedule and regretted it. Harry was unmoved. He pulled the nursing card—said that as he’s the one that’s up with Teddy, he should be able to do this his way. Teddy wakes up if he’s hungry, thank you very much.

Harry got a bit loud and woke Teddy from his nap. Harry went to fetch him. I told Narcissa I was surprised the Malfoy house-elves didn’t keep Draco on a rigid schedule. She said the house-elves had no part in Draco’s care, and left for her room.

What good am I around here?

 

9 August 1998  
Things are still a bit chilly around here. To make matters worse, Narcissa got another letter from Draco today—a heads up that his trial date has been set for 1 September. Do the Wizengamot think that’s funny? She’s written to her probation officer to request permission to attend the trial. She also asked Harry if he would consider writing a letter on Draco’s behalf. Harry informed us both that he already had done, back when he wrote Narcissa’s. She thanked him and things thawed out a bit. Narcissa’s still incredibly high strung, though. 

 

10 August 1998  
The _Prophet_ announced Draco’s trial date today, and published an accompanying piece summarising the charges against him along with the backgrounds of the prosecutors. An acquittal is not looking likely. 

It was a scorcher today, but Narcissa stayed in her room. 

 

13 August 1998  
Teddy’s got his four-month check-up with Poppy today. I haven’t been so happy to get out of the house in recent memory. I actually think Harry feels the same way, a testament to the atmosphere in the house since Draco’s trial date was set. It’s difficult to be around Narcissa right now. It’s not that _she’s_ being difficult. She’s still making tea and breakfast and doing the washing up—and have I told you that she’s graduated to learning how to operate the hoover and the washer and dryer? But her plaits are more bedraggled than usual and she doesn’t say a word. 

With everyone at home feeling edgy, it was welcome news to hear that Teddy continues to be a picture of health. Harry looked as proud as a peacock when Poppy pronounced that Teddy was clearly being well cared for. Harry did mention that Teddy hasn’t cut any teeth or laughed yet—he read in some books that some babies do by four months. Poppy told him he needn’t fret—plenty of time, and every baby has their own pace. She did show Harry some some baby-safe charms for alleviating teething pains, for when the time comes. Harry practiced them with her over and over.

 

15 August 1998  
Narcissa’s still floating around the house silently when she’s not shut up in her room. Harry, meanwhile, has finished reading through the baby books he got. He’s not satisfied by them, though. He says it only makes him worry as new time brackets approach for development milestones, and that he also still has a lot of questions about how well they apply to Metamorphmagi. He asked whether being a Metamorphmagus impacts teething, if baby Metamorphmagi can just shift their teeth back to gums if they hurt trying to push through. What a question. I never even considered things like that with you. I suggested he might find some books specifically on Metamorphmagi more helpful. He asked if I’d read many. I have of course, but it’s been decades. There were certainly no books on raising well adjusted shape-shifters when your dad and I had you. I segued into the books Hermione sent for his birthday. He shook his head said they were pop psychology books on getting over trauma. Apparently Hermione found them very helpful, and after Ron snitched on him for being “a bit reclusive” Hermione thought Harry might benefit from them also. He said he’s not a recluse, he’s just focussed on Teddy. He offered the books to me, if I’m interested.

 

20 August 1998  
Harry, Teddy and I have been taking longer walks than usual since Narcissa froze over. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but I shudder to think what state she’ll be in when the verdict gets handed down. 

It’s been absolutely sweltering, but we keep Teddy well covered in his buggy and the sea breeze makes things more pleasant. And we take our time. 

We popped into the bookstore again today while Harry and Teddy did groceries. I checked out the pop psychology section. It’s so embarrassing, but there it is. I did wind up looking over Harry’s books, but I don’t think that they’re really… for me. I fingered some of the spines on the shop shelves with titles about depression, meditation, grief, healing. But I didn’t buy anything. Right now this is the only book I’m interested in. Of course I’m depressed. And I think I’m entitled to feel that way, all things considered.

 

23 August 1998  
Harry placed an owl order with Flourish & Blotts under a pseudonym a week or so ago and ever since it arrived he’s taken to filling the house with complaints about the lack of information on young Metamorphmagi and how the ability affects development. 

You dad and I were also frustrated about the lack of help—but I’m surprised that there hasn’t been more written on the topic it in the intervening decades. Decades—can you believe it? 

Harry remarked that I must be the world’s foremost expert on baby Metamorphmagi, after you and now Teddy. What a thought. He said that _I_ should write a book. 

I’m already occupied with one.

 

25 August 1998  
As annoyed as Harry was with the lack of pertinent information in his new books, he’s still reading them. He asked me today what I thought about the Tabula Rasa Theory. It’s been a damn age since I thought about all that. You dad and I read quite a bit about it after you surprised us with your talents. We didn’t have the time or energy to do research in the earliest days, but once things settled and we both began getting _some_ sleep again, we wanted to learn more about your special brand of magic. Your father and I were a bit… off-put by the idea that Metamorphmagi don’t truly have any features that are genuinely their own—that newborns instinctively mimic the first things they see, pulling doughy approximations of the faces they see and expand their repertoire from there, merging features over time to construct their “neutral visage.” Harry showed me some of a passage from one of his books and said he agrees with the author that Tabula Rasa isn’t so different from children genetically inheriting their parents’ features. Newborn Metamorphmagi generally see their parents and family first, so they look like them, just like most other newborns. 

Thinking of it that way, it doesn’t seem so bad. And Harry said he thinks it would be nice to have the last word on one’s own appearance—that sometimes he feels he’d give anything to wipe away his scar, or to meet people without them seeing only a copy of his father. He doesn’t often open up to me like that, but I think Narcissa might have become something of a confidant to him, and she’s out of commission. I didn’t want him to feel the confidence was misplaced, so I assured him that he could encourage Teddy as he gets older to adopt any features that please him, that he can train himself to remain neutral when Teddy shifts to mimic Harry himself, and others too—that he can do his best not to sway the lad and let Teddy choose for himself. Harry smiled and thanked me. He said he’d try, but he really doesn’t know what he’s doing. That young man doesn’t give himself an ounce of credit.

 

28 August 1998  
Things are the same around here. It feels like Groundhog day.

Narcissa’s still moving around the house, doing chores like a wraith, when she’s not hiding in her room. 

Harry’s still frustrating himself by reading books on Metamorphmagi that don’t include the information he’s seeking.

Teddy mostly occupies himself by wriggling around on his back. I think he’s angling to roll onto his tummy, but he can’t quite manage it yet. I watch him at it sometimes. He gets frustrated, but he’s very persistent. And have I written that he’s started laughing? He laughs a lot. Despite his rocky start, he’s a happy boy.

And me? I’m still helping Harry, but mostly I’m trying to figure out what to say to my sister when her son is sentenced.

 

29 August 1998  
Draco’s trial begins tomorrow. It’s taken a few months to get here, but I expect the verdict will come quickly nonetheless. I still don’t know what to say to Narcissa. 

 

1 September 1998  
It’s Hogwarts day. This is supposed to be an auspicious day in the British Isles—children from all over descending on King’s Cross excitedly. I remember when you left for year one. Some of the other parents took umbrage with your hair. You were so unafraid to be yourself. I wish I’d paid closer attention to how you did that. I wish I’d taken the time to learn from you, rather than worrying that others would judge you. Even though I wanted you to fit in, I admired that you didn’t give two shites. You did it your way. I admired you, but I worried about you more. 

Above everything, I loved that you weren’t fussed about which House you were sorted into—when your dad asked you where you wanted to go you said, and I’ll never forget this: “Wherever I belong.” You always went where you were needed. I don’t think you could help it.

So here we are, another Hogwarts day. Only eleven more until Teddy’s off. The time will fly. There’s no stopping it. Can you imagine what a mess Harry will be when he has to part with Teddy for _months_ at a time? I joke, but in all seriousness I think it could be a bad scene.

It’s also trial day. Narcissa’s probation officer never bothered to answer her owl requesting permission to attend Draco’s trial. How very rude. Decline if need be, but not to answer at all? You would never have treated someone like that, not even a convict.

I asked Narcissa if she wanted to listen to the trial on the Wireless. (I read in the _Prophet_ a while back that they were broadcasting them live, and I do have a wireless in my bedroom that’s been sitting cold since the last time you and I listened to Potterwatch in bed.) Draco’s trial is closed though, since so many of the charges he’s facing are officially lain against a minor. She said she’d rather wait—that hearing only speculation from the court reporters about the most serious orders of business would just set her teeth on edge. Frankly, I don’t know how much more on edge they could be.

She’s given herself over to bouts of vigorous scrubbing--the house is spotless. I don’t know if she’s doing it for the distraction, or if she’s trying to convince herself that Draco might be joining us here when this ordeal if over and she’s trying to get everything in perfect order. 

Harry and I took Teddy for a walk. We go everyday, but we made a hasty retreat today when the furniture polish came out.

 

The _Evening Prophet_ came, carrying speculation about Draco’s case on the front page. When the owl delivered it, Narcissa paused and asked if they’d reached a verdict. She stayed stockstill while I scanned the article. I told her no, and she went back to scrubbing.

Teddy, meanwhile, was on the floor of the sitting room with Harry, lolling about. Some people think babies don’t have a care in the world. I disagree. I think he senses our moods, the atmosphere of the house. Just because he’s too young to understand Magical Law doesn’t mean he can’t feel. He’s picking up on Narcissa’s restlessness. Maybe that’s what gave him the impetus to roll onto his front for the first time today. Harry looked as though he’d never seen anything so impressive. Even Narcissa squatted down to speak soft encouragements to him. I joined everyone on the floor to egg him on. 

Perhaps today is auspicious after all.

 

2 September 1998  
It’s a damn mercy that Teddy’s learned a new trick. It’s so hard to stay in the doldrums when Teddy rolls over as fast as Harry puts him down, when he smiles at the praise and laughs. 

We’re still waiting for news, but Teddy is taking care of us.

 

3 September 1998  
The verdict was handed down this morning. The trial was quick, as expected. Draco’s been sentenced to three years with the possibility of parole. Narcissa’s distraught. How do you comfort a woman whose child is locked away beyond her sight and reach, when you’re jealous as hell that she’ll get to see him again in three short years? I’d give anything to see you in three years, or five, or fifteen, or fifty. 

But it would be base callousness to tell a suffering woman she need only be patient.

 

5 September 1998  
Narcissa received an owl from Draco this morning. It was filled with platitudes: three years is nothing, it could have been more, it will go by quickly, she’s not to worry, he can handle himself—Azkaban isn’t as awful since Kingsley ousted the Dementors.

He can’t handle himself, according to Narcissa. That’s how this happened: she and Lucius always handled everything for him and when they got him in too deep, he floundered. It’s their fault—her fault—she repeats 100 times a day.

A part of me (that grows bigger every time she repeats herself) wants to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and scream in her face that OF COURSE she’s to blame! What did she think? Where did she expect her choices to lead her? She had a sister who adored her and she wrote me off completely because of your dad’s blood status. She married a man who’s even more fanatical about blood purity than she is and had a son with him. Together they indoctrinated their son with their small-minded views and encouraged him to act upon them. And here we are. Because of Harry and his friends, because of the Order, because of Remus and because of you, Draco’s paying for her mistakes. Does she think that because she’s adapting to Muggle living, because she’s cohabitating with Harry and with Teddy and with me again, the past has been erased? 

But what good would it do to be so harsh with her? She’s trying. And she has changed. She hasn’t said so explicitly, but I believe she feels remorse. 

 

7 September 1998  
I may have cracked and yelled at your aunt. I definitely did not not crack and reprimand her for moping around the house, blaming herself when she could be doing something useful like writing to Draco’s solicitor to see what can be done to achieve an early parole. Harry did not have to admonish me for upsetting Teddy.

I do feel badly; yelling at Narcissa won’t help. 

 

8 September 1998  
I spent most of last night beating myself up.

 

It turns out that I _might_ have been too hard on myself. Or not hard enough. They jury’s still out. This morning I came downstairs for my morning tea and found Harry cutting your aunt’s hair at the kitchen table. I gave her the old Black eyebrow and she said it’s too much of a nuisance without magic. Harry cut it up to her chin. He apologised that it’s not perfect, but that he’d only ever trimmed his own, Ron’s and Hermione’s before. I haven’t seen Narcissa without curtains of hair since she was a toddler. But she acted like it was nothing, just thanked Harry, pulled the towel from around her shoulders and shook it out in the bin, swept up the rest of her hair, tossed the towel in the washing machine and excused herself. Apparently she has letters to write.

I can’t tell if I’ve broken your aunt or not.

 

10 September 1998  
Narcissa’s been writing owls back and forth with Draco’s solicitor. She doesn’t have much money to offer him—she can’t officially draw on the funds she received for her maintenance during her house arrest—she has to submit receipts monthly to justify her expenditures. I’m not sure what kind of arrangement she’s made with him, but Harry and I both assured her we had no plans to let her go hungry. Anyway, regardless of the cost, Narcissa’s asking the solicitor to agitate for Draco to be paroled as early as possible. He wrote that Draco’s case would be stronger with testimonials more objective than his mother’s. She asked Harry to vouch for Draco again. She asked me to write that Draco has a place here, with a family member with a spotless record. I rather think Harry’s presence will be what swings the vote, if anything.

We wrote.

 

19 September 1998  
Harry told me out of nowhere that it’s Hermione’s birthday today. He says he’s never thanked her properly for keeping him alive when they were on the run because before the dust could settle he and she both had to attend to their family obligations. He said he wouldn’t trade being Teddy’s godfather for anything, but that he wishes he knew how to care for more than one person at a time. 

I asked if he sent an owl to wish her well. He said he hadn’t managed it. I suggested that it’s not too late, that he could write her now, that it’ll brighten her day to hear from him no matter what day it is. He said he’s not much of a letter writer. I told him that sometimes if he puts quill to parchment, he might be surprised how much he has to say to her. He’s been writing at the kitchen table for forty-five minutes.

 

I’ve been reading the paper. I don’t want to get Narcissa’s hopes up, so I haven’t said anything, but I think there’s a good chance that Draco might be paroled. After the months the prosecutors put into preparing the best cases they could against accused Death Eaters, Snatchers, sympathisers, collaborators and general wartime opportunists, these trials have been moving quickly—the Wizengamot has been throwing the book at people, and Azkaban is filling up. 

When the Dementors guarded it, Azkaban seemed such a remote place—the Ministry was always more likely to fine someone harshly or reprimand them publicly, perhaps have them do community service. Azkaban was a place for the worst of the worst and was never intended to house massive numbers of convicts. But we’ve nowhere else to send people to serve prison sentences. There is talk of building a new facility to house “the overflow”, but considering how long it would take to construct a secure prison, that could take time that the Ministry just hasn’t got. I agree with one of the _Prophet_ ’s Op-Ed writers that the likeliest thing is that the least egregious offenders (and, I think, those without the taint of participation in the first war) will be paroled with strict probation restrictions. Narcissa managed to wrangle a house arrest, of course, but she doesn’t have the Mark, and it’s hard to imagine many people outside of Ministry scrutiny would be willing to play host to those who were charged with more active collusion with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

 

20 September 1998  
It’s the last day of summer. I expect we’ll spend it in the garden. Teddy can continue his efforts to give Harry a heart attack by pushing himself up onto his arms. Harry hovers right over him when he’s doing it—says he’s afraid Teddy will face plant. Dare I point out the lad is laying on a quilted blanket on soft grass?

Harry thanked me for encouraging him to write Hermione. He said he ended up writing heaps about his researching into Metamorphmagi, and that she’ll be proud of him, that he looks forward to hearing her thoughts about a few things. 

 

27 September 1998  
Narcissa heard from Draco’s solicitor today. He says he’s put together an appeal and is cautiously optimistic due to Azkaban’s problem with overcrowding. She’s not been reading the _Prophet_ , so I filled her in. I was loath to get her hopes up. Or maybe loath to see another woman on the precipice of being reunited with her child. 

It should be you and I. We never fell in line with the Death Eaters. We stood against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Admittedly, your dad and I could have got involved sooner—but we aided the war effort in the end. 

And yet it’s Narcissa and Draco that are likely to be living under the same roof again. This roof. My roof. Yours.

What kind of woman thinks these things about her sister? It’s not as though Narcissa is unrepentant. It’s just too much for me right now, to see her regret rewarded when your sacrifices never can be.

 

29 September 1998  
The weather has taken a turn and driven Harry, Teddy and I back into the sitting room. It’s been poor weather for walking as well, so we haven’t given the neighbours anything to gossip about for a few days.

Narcissa still sits outside sometimes under a brolly, waiting for news of Draco. She heard from Lucius’s solicitor yesterday and learned that his trial date has been fixed for 5 October. She seems much less invested in her husband’s outcome than their son’s. I was a bit surprised—I was always given to understand that theirs was a love match. Certainly, the pacing, scrubbing and silence of August have not returned. I am genuinely thankful for these small mercies.

 

3 October 1998  
Teddy’s been unusually fussy the last few days. Nothing like the way he wailed after you left, but more uneasy, less interested in trying to move about. He wants to be held most of the time, but then squirms in our arms. I expect he’s cutting his first tooth. I told Harry as much, and he’s been casting the charms Poppy taught him, which helped, but not much. Harry’s been peeking into Teddy’s mouth and feeling his gums twenty times a day. Today he wanted to owl Poppy, but I urged him to wait for a few days. Teddy’s got no fever, no cough, no sinus trouble. This will resolve when that tooth comes out, mark my words. And _then_ Harry will really have something to worry about. My nipples ache in sympathy.

 

5 October 1998  
Right again—Harry said Teddy nipped him this morning. I told him he needs to give Teddy a firm “no” if he does it again, or he’ll keep at it, and he’s only going to get more teeth. Harry very clearly doesn’t want to chide Teddy, but his also been rubbing his left nipple a lot today. He said one of the books recommended hugging baby closer to the chest—that they’ll let go automatically to breathe. He says he’ll try that if Teddy bites him again.

None of us have mentioned Lucius’s trial since the date was fixed. I’ve been astonished many times these last months about the depth of Harry’s mercy for Narcissa’s and Draco’s plights, but no one could expect him to feel that kind of sympathy for Lucius. If Narcissa and Draco were forced into complicity and criminality, it was Lucius’s allegiances that brought them there. Narcissa may have been an utter snob about blood status, but I cannot believe that she would ever have sought to harm a Muggle. Her worst crimes, it seems increasingly clear to me, were her poor judgement and her failure to correct the course down which it steered her.

 

7 October 1998  
Lucius’s trial is taking longer than Draco’s and far longer than Narcissa’s. Hardly surprising, considering the litany of charges he’s facing. According the the _Prophet_ ’s coverage, the lead prosecutor—there’s a veritable team arguing the case against him—are doing their best to dredge up as many of Lucius’s past charges as they can. He cannot be charged with them again, of course—he remains acquitted for previously tried crimes—but they can invoke as many as possible in their arguments and intimate that, not only did he get off scot free the first time around, that he’s clearly unrepentant and has learned nothing in the intervening years. 

Narcissa avoids the coverage, but she knows what must be going on, and she worries that it will adversely affect Draco’s chance of parole. It is also possible, though, that if Lucius receives a harsh sentence, Draco may benefit from a sense that the Malfoy patriarch is to blame for his family’s actions, and has got his comeuppance. 

Only time will tell.

 

9 October 1998  
Lucius was found guilty of all charges by a unanimous vote. The Wizengamot sentenced him to life without parole without skipping a beat. 

How’s this for melodramatic timing? The sun came out for the first time in weeks.

Narcissa is holding up well. Draco remains her main concern. 

 

10 October 1998  
Lucius wrote my sister. He asked her to visit once her house arrest is over and asked her to bring Draco when his own sentence is served. Narcissa tossed the letter in the bin. 

With Bellatrix dead and Fenrir Greyback still at large, Lucius’s trial was undoubtedly the most highly anticipated, thoroughly covered and most closely followed. The _Prophet_ wrote that in the wake of his sentence the public is out for blood. More than one person in the gallery tried to hex him as the Aurors led him out of the courtroom, and a petition has already been submitted to the head of the DMLE with over a thousand signatures demanding he be kissed.

Even in my angriest moments, I don’t know if I could support a person’s soul being sucked away. When I think about you, though, I think maybe I could. ~~Maybe, if I knew who~~

That kind of impulse for vengeance frightens me.

 

13 October 1998  
Poppy did Teddy’s six month check-up today. Hogwarts is back in session after a whirlwind of rebuilding through the summer, so Poppy came to us. After the usual diagnostic spells Poppy gave him a clean bill of health and praised his first tooth. He’s not sickly, your boy. 

Poppy grilled Harry about whether he’d been getting out. We said we all have been, but not so much since fall. She urged us to get out whenever we could, but admitted that Harry’s looking more robust. I joked that we’d taken to scandalising the neighbours with our apparent May-December relationship. Poppy and I had a laugh while Harry turned red and spluttered out a demand to know who thought that and what on earth gave them that impression (what I am, chopped liver?). 

Poppy left and we took our prescribed walk. Harry blushed furiously the whole time, scrutinising the looks of the neighbours we passed and generally doing his best to communicate our totally platonic parenting arrangement through distant and formal body language.

I say parenting arrangement… More and more I am forced to reckon with the reality that I’m just an observer here. Harry needed me at first, but he knows the ropes now, and what parent is an expert their first go around, anyway? Parents have been flying by the seat of their pants since the dawn of the species. 

It is kind of Harry to pretend that I still have a part to play. I need to pretend, myself, because if I’m not raising Teddy, what am I doing? I’ve been more preoccupied with Narcissa than I have with Teddy the last month… 

I’m just not sure where to go from here? I am sure that if I took a more active role with Teddy, that Harry would accept it, if not welcome it. But do I want to? I know I don’t. And I’m disgusted with myself for that. 

Your dad and I had you young because we never wanted to be “old parents.” Funny, now that I’m approaching fifty I don’t feel old at all, and yet I am also no more inclined to have another child, to spend years doing it all over again.

I have no clue what I’m doing.

 

14 October 1998  
Back to the bookstore for me. All of your childhood books are safely tucked away in the attic. But I can’t go up there. Most of them are far too advanced for Teddy, anyway. He’s been big enough for picture books for a while, though. I bought a few and used one to capture Teddy’s attention today. He let me pull him into my lap on the sofa and read to him a bit about blue cows going moo and purple sheep going bah. Mostly he just fancied snatching the book and shaking it about. Narcissa gave him a weary glance and scooched out of probably book-tossing range, but she needn’t have worried—lad has a Herculean grip.

 

18 October 1998  
I’ve been reading to Teddy a bit in the afternoons—as long as he’ll let me keep the book in hand, that is. I can’t ignore a baby, that’s ghastly. And I don’t mind reading to him. It was your dad that read to you most often—I was more interested in chasing you around on all fours and dancing you around while we listened to your dad’s records. I think that’s why it’s easier for me to read to Teddy now. It doesn’t feels like sacrilege. 

 

23 October 1998  
Déja vu today. Teddy started trying to mimic animal noses—he can get the colours, but it’s harder for him to do non-human shapes, I think. When I’ve got the book open, he makes a go of it, but the results are, shall we say, impressionist. We all encourage him, though Harry remarked that that it’s probably a good thing that we don’t watch the telly—it would probably be an overload for him. 

I remember when you started on animal shapes. It gave your dad and me quite a start to see a sort of squidgy snout (always your favourite) poking out of our baby’s bonnet. We started panicking and then you started crying and it shifted back to normal and we realised what you’d done, how much you really could change your appearance, though it took you years to master non-human shapes.While you were learning and trying I often discouraged you from pulling faces, especially animal faces, for fun. I suppose some level of Black-family training in preventing unseemliness got the better of me. I’m sorry about it now. I’m incredibly grateful that your dad had a better sense of humour, and that you had enough humour and will of your own to ignore me anyway. I won’t do the same to Teddy. 

 

28 October 1998  
Harry thinks it might be good for Teddy to see different kinds of animals. There are a few wildlife refuges in Cornwall, but it’s not really the season for it, so more books are the ticket. Harry has a theory that exposing Teddy to a range of “faces”, of shapes, of possibilities might be good for the development of his shifting, kind stimulating toning different muscle groups. He admits he’s not sure, but in any case it’ll be educational, and as I’ve only just started making a real effort to bond with Teddy by reading to him, I’m glad for the incidental support.

 

30 October 1998  
I picked out a few more books with animals in them, and Teddy’s expanding his repertoire from barnyard to woodland. Rabbit nose seems to be his favourite--at least I think the little pink button he’s been sporting is meant to be a rabbit nose. In that spirit, I Transfigured a set of Teddy’s pajamas into a bunny suit for tomorrow. When I showed Harry he laughed and said he’d completely forgotten about Halloween. Of course, when we take Teddy out for walks, he’s in the buggy and the shade that keeps the sun out also prevents anyone on the street from taking too close a look at him, lest he changes. We keep knit caps on him for good measure. The bunny costume will cover his hair and we can attribute any odd noses to Halloween.

It’s not just Halloween, though, is it? It’s Samhain. ~~The old wisdom says that the veil is thin~~

 

31 October 1998  
Harry got Teddy into his costume this morning—it was too cute to resist, really. He showed Teddy himself in the mirror and Teddy was jubilant. He immediately tried shifting his nose to match the ears. Harry said he’s amazed how clever is—how he can remember images he’s seen and shift to try and match like features, or different fanciful colours to animal sounds. He thinks we should stick to books with anatomically correct images. I reminded him that children who can’t shift have no trouble learning that cows aren’t blue in real life. He conceded that one. 

Harry’s taking him out later, just for a bit. He hasn’t eaten solid food yet, nevermind candy, but a baby’s first Halloween is not to be missed. And I wouldn’t say no to a few Mini Celebrations. Narcissa and I are staying in to dole out the same to the children that come round. 

Harry and Teddy came back after a couple of hours—longer than I expected, actually. Harry said they walked about and collected a few candies, but he noticed a couple of parents corralling their sprogs for photos and he decided to pick up a camera. They went out so early that most of the shops on the high street were still open, so they rerouted and bought a camera. Says he feels a fool for not thinking to get one sooner, but no one ever really took photos of him until he rejoined the magical world. He snapped a few photos of Teddy in his costume along with a couple of Narcissa and I holding Teddy respectively, and one of the three of us. I took one of Harry and Teddy, and finally Harry pulled out a tripod and insisted on a group shot with the four of us.

It never even dawned on me, before he showed Narcissa and I that camera, that we should be taking photos. We weren’t shutterbugs with you either, mind you, but we took some photos of course. I feel a bit down on myself now, for forgetting. Did you and Remus take some in the first weeks? We were so preoccupied with staying alive… I’ll ask Harry if I can look through his room—your room—another day. 

Right now I am focussed on my competition with Narcissa to see who can eat the most Mini Celebrations.

 

1 November 1998  
It been drizzling today, but Harry and I took Teddy out anyway. He said he wants to go back into town, so we did. It’s not as though we can’t both use the exercise. We walked up the high street to the camera shop he visited yesterday evening. He said he he was a bit rushed last night so he didn’t have time to get everything he wanted. We all went in and he bought the best video camera they had. Harry’s charging the battery and reading through the instructions now. I guess this is his way of making up for six photographless months. 

Narcissa is intrigued by the video camera. Harry tried explaining to her about moving pictures, but she doesn’t quite grasp the difference between them and, well, moving pictures. Harry hooked the the camera up to the telly after he put Teddy to bed. It’s the first time we’ve used that thing in who knows how long. Harry showed Narcissa and I his recording of Teddy pulling himself up using the coffee table and using it to support himself. Narcissa wanted to know how Muggles manage to capture the images and sound in the first place, and then get them into the television on top of that. 

Harry and I were pretty useless when it came to the science of A/V recording, but he showed her the cords jacking the camera into the telly. She asked if all Muggles had cameras, and I explained that most people have cameras that take still images, while video recording is used mostly for entertainment. Harry and I tried to describe films and telly again, but I suppose they really need to be seen to be understood. 

 

2 November 1998  
I paid the television license today. I was going going to show Narcissa television properly for the first time, but news came that Draco has been granted a parole hearing early next month, on December 3rd. Your aunt is practically buzzing. It’s good news, of course, but I know that the uncertainty will make the next few weeks trying ones. I can only hope Narcissa doesn’t return to the habits she adopted when Draco was awaiting trial. This situation is much more hopeful, though, so therefore so am I.

 

5 November 1998  
I need not have worried that Narcissa would resume the gloomy silence of August. Instead she has ushered in the frenetic speculations of November. She paces and wonders aloud (and in circles) about how Draco’s parole hearing might play out, about how Lucius’s trial might affect things, about how much the support of Harry Potter will be worth. She’s even taken to reading the _Prophet_ again to gauge public opinion.

I’m going to show her something on telly today—anything—just to try and shut her up for a bit. Sixty minutes of quiet would be ideal, but I’ll settle for thirty if I have to.

 

17 November 1998  
I may have to bin the telly. We’ve been obsessively watching Midsomer Murders and Jonathan Creek reruns in the evenings, and we’re filling time between those with Last of the Summer Wine. I fear Narcissa will get the impression she was right all along about Muggles from watching shows about inordinately murderous towns and infantile OAPs. In any case, she’s got an irritating knack for solving the mysteries—we have Ms Christie to thank for that. The first time we watched Midsomer she kept making supremely annoying ‘mmms’ of superior understanding. At the end she told Harry and I she’d figured it out half way through, but we teased that we didn’t believe her. Since then she’s taken to watching with parchment and a quill. She solves the mysteries while Harry and I enjoy the programmes like normal people, writes down her conclusions, folds the parchment when she’s done and places it on the coffee table. Infuriatingly, she’s always right. More infuriatingly, she’s getting faster at it. It’s only a matter of time before she starts solving the surrealist crimes of Jonathan Creek too. 

Irritating though her prowess with fictional mystery solving is, it’s been a blessing to have something to keep Narcissa distracted for an hour or two a day. I’d have the thing on all day long, just to keep her mind occupied, but we wait until Teddy falls asleep to watch; Harry worries telly is a bad influence when introduced too young—something about his cousin, Dudley. He’s probably right that it would only be an audio-visual overload for him at this age, but also, most babies these days get at least some television exposure and turn out fine.

Harry is more patient with Narcissa than I am, so the telly isn’t a refuge for him like it is for me. That, or he’s better at tuning her out and has a natural gift for nodding at the right time. 

I can listen for a bit, but once she hits her stride about Draco’s chances at parole (today resting between sixty and seventy-five percent, in her estimation) I take take Teddy into another room and read a bit. We’ve got some more books in the house with an even wider range of animals—Hary wonders if birds and reptiles might be more of a challenge than mammals, or if that just feels intuitive because of how we categorise species. I don’t know _what_ he’s been reading that prompted that.

 

20 November 1998  
Teddy crawled for the first time today. He’s _that_ pleased with himself. Harry keeps the video camera on standby in the sitting room, and quickly started filming why Narcissa and I called out encouragements. Normally home videos and baby photos are kinds of things with which proud parents would torture their loved ones. But it’s just us here, and we saw it in person. We enjoyed it. We participated. I don’t know who these tapes are for, really. Harry, I suppose. It obviously delights him to film Teddy, to cajole him to smile and laugh on demand, and to capture it when he does. A not insignificant part of me is still worried about how much of Harry’s focus and energy are taken up with Teddy. But the boy makes him happy, anyone can see that. Teddy won’t heal Harry’s wounds, but he’s certainly functioning as a balm. Perhaps that’s enough for right now.

Anyway, Teddy was positively lapping up the attention. He’s actually quite incredible, you know? The first month of his life would have incapacitated your average well adjusted adult, but here he is, adapted to Harry and to me and to your aunt. He’s got an incredible smile. He loves attention. He laughs at everything now. He relishes the praise we give him for his shifting.

It’s getting a little easier for me, too, to smile and to laugh. I feel awful about that, but there it is. I can look at him now, and see you in him, without having thoughts too horrible to speak (or write). It’s still agony, though. That hasn’t diminished. And, unfair as it is to Teddy, he remains a constant reminder of you. He’s just so much like you—a sunbeam, but a cheeky one. 

I don’t want to keep holding that against him.

 

1 December 1998  
I’m not sure who’s going to worry themself to death first: Harry, over Teddy’s latest joy in life—trying the pull himself up the stairs; Narcissa, over waiting for the parole board’s decision in two days time; or me, over where I even stand in Teddy’s life—over where I should _want_ to stand. 

On the plus side, Narcissa will be put out of her misery one way or another come the 3rd, and even if the news is bad, it will be a small relief to have the tension of waiting gone from the house. The last few days even tales of grisly homicides have lost their interest for your aunt. 

Not long now, though. 

Perhaps Draco will be watching with us soon.

 

3 December 1998  
Narcissa forewent breakfast this morning—said she didn’t think she could keep anything down. Harry and I are taking turns sitting with her at the kitchen table, topping off cups of tea, while the other follows Teddy around the house. 

If nothing else, having a baby around is a surefire reminder that life goes on whether we want it to or not. No matter how flattened you feel, somethings you have no choice but to get back up to take care of.

 

Draco’s coming to join us. The parole board voted in his favour on the basis of good behaviour and the case his solicitor built. They determined that six months (including the time served awaiting trial) was a satisfactory prison sentence, and that Draco will serve his remaining two and half years under house arrest. 

I am glad for my sister, for Draco even. I don’t envy having Lucius Malfoy for a father (nor my sister for a mother, to be candid, at least not in her younger iteration). But I do not delude myself; Draco has to remain under my roof until his sentence is served, as does Narcissa. There will soon be five people living here, many of us with complicated histories (or none at all). Narcissa must have considered this as well. And I am sure that Harry is not eager to live with Draco. The whole thing feels different on this side of the decision. Until now it all seemed hypothetical, despite Narcissa wearing the topic thin over the last month.

Narcissa, my prim and proper sister, literally jumped for joy upon receiving the news. She quickly composed herself and took to crying demurely, while thanking Harry and I for our support of Draco on her behalf. Harry said it was the right thing to do.

Harry is being a bit reserved about the whole thing. I know that he and Draco were at Hogwarts together, or course. Narcissa has told me that they antagonised one another throughout their time there, but that it’s complicated—that it became complicated once she and Draco came face to face with the life their choices (and above all, Lucius’s) built for them. She says during the war Draco even lied to Bellatrix, Lucius and herself in an attempt to protect Harry. She mused about how forgiving Harry has been to her. She is hopefully that Harry can find mercy for Draco as well.

 

4 December 1998  
Draco arrived this afternoon, escorted by a single Auror. I didn’t recognise the Auror, but he tipped his hat to me respectfully. He told me you’re missed in the Department. Of course you are. No one could have known you and not miss you. 

I’ve only seen Draco a few times before, on occasions when I passed Narcissa or Lucius escorting him down a street and we’d all determinedly look past one another. I’d wager Draco never even knew it was me. He always looked like a right little prick to me, walking alongside Narcissa or Lucius like he was a little prince. I can’t fully blame him for that though—it’s what they taught him. 

He doesn’t look like the movie version of an ex-con. He’s not too thin, or dirty. His hair isn’t ratty (though it has been shaved off). His black robes are plain but serviceable. He was taken aback when he laid eyes on his mother. He put a finger to the front of her cropped hair. He said they match now, and she put her hand on his head, where there’s nothing more than stubble. They embraced. 

I had to excuse myself. Harry had absented himself before Draco appeared. He kept to his room for their reunion. So they are downstairs together—mother and child—alone. 

That should be us. That should be you and Teddy.

I have to get out of here. 

 

Went for a walk with Harry and Teddy. It’s fluttering around above zero, but we bundled Teddy up, and ourselves, and strolled around. It was a nice day for it. It was sunny. We haven’t been getting out as much as fall has inched closer and closer to winter. It was good to feel a bit of sunshine on my face. We weren’t out too long, but long enough for me to ask Harry if having Draco around is going to be a problem. He told me it can’t be, because it’s too late now and he doesn’t want Teddy growing up around angry people, bitter people, people who treat each other badly. Remarkable young man.

When we got back lunch was made and Narcissa and Draco were waiting for us to tuck in. Harry nodded to Draco and greeted him (albeit as “Malfoy”). Draco returned the greeting and thanked Harry for helping to get him paroled. It sounded practiced and stiff, but Harry accepted and repeated what he said before Draco arrived: it was the right thing to do. Draco introduced himself to me, and asked if he ought to call me Aunt Andromeda. I said he could. I’m not fussed about what he calls me, but I think the formality eased his landing here. He thanked me for giving him a place during his parole. I told him it’s Harry’s place too, but that it’s also Narcissa’s—and his—while they need it. He thanked me again and finally acknowledged Teddy; he asked if that was his cousin, once removed. 

I didn’t know he was aware that you had a child. Honestly, I didn’t know he was even aware of you. Harry said yes, and introduced Teddy, his _godson_. Draco said he was pleased to meet us both. 

Lunch was a quiet affair. After we ate, Harry pulled up his jumper and began nursing Teddy with an unmistakable look and a stance of defiance on his face. I can only assume he was baiting Draco, trying to determine right from the off if he was going to be trouble. Draco did nothing but clear the dishes and excuse himself.

What have Harry and I gotten ourselves into?

 

5 December 1998  
Everyone survived the first day with the new addition. We don’t have another spare room, so Draco is in with Narcissa. I Transfigured an unused desk into a single bed and it’s snug, but neither of them complained. It’s a far cry from Malfoy Manor, I’ve no doubt, but they’ve both got a good enough sense of self-preservation not to complain about things that can’t be changed, especially when it would sour relations with the people with whom they’re forced to live for the foreseeable future. And besides, even an adolescent male must prefer to bunk with his mother than in a gaol cell.

We all had tea this morning, and ate toast, as usual. Draco thanked me for preparing some clothing and toiletries for him (I was ready the second go around) and told his mother he’d do the washing up as she moved to do it. Harry wasn’t able to resist asking him if he knew what he was doing. Draco pronounced with false nonchalance that he’d done rotations in the prison kitchen and laundry—neither of which included a wand allowance. That nipped any further commentary in the bud.

And that’s the closest we’ve come to an incident thus far. 

I feel for Harry and Draco both, actually. It must be difficult to see a former enemy—if that’s not too extreme a term—completely removed from the context that produced the enmity in the first place. 

How are warring factions to reconcile in peacetime, especially when one triumphed over the other? Whatever the process, it must be complicated when the defeated party didn’t want to win in the first place.

Generally, Harry and Draco have avoided speaking. I wouldn’t call Draco talkative, but he’s politely responsive if Narcissa or I initiate. He’s very formal with me and doesn’t like to look me right in the eye. Normally I’d be offended by that and consider him impolite at best or shifty at worst, but I can’t help recalling last year, when Harry and Hagrid crashed in our garden and Harry thought I was Bellatrix when he regained consciousness. Draco logged a lot more hours with Bellatrix, poor sod, so I try to stay as bright looking as I can. No one smiling in a sane manner could possibly remind anyone of Bellatrix.

 

7 December 1998  
It’s been more of the same over here since Draco arrived. It feels like we’re all waiting for the axe to fall. Well, in all fairness, that makes it sound more dramatic than it is. Are things tense? Yes. Is it uncomfortable? Yes. Is it hostile? No. Harry has never seemed so perfectly his age since he arrived. But teenagers all, at some point or another, find themselves confronted with people or situations (or, in this case, both) that make them feel like they are under scrutiny—being constantly watched, judged and found wanting. The issue is not the feeling per se, but the performance that ensues. Rather like you, putting your clumsiness front and centre and making a show of being _cool_ about it. 

In Harry’s case, it’s taking care of Teddy. Of course, he was devoted to that effort before Draco got here, but now his actions—nursing, changing a nappy, filming him, taking the lad to bed, or for a bath—all have a veneer of artificiality about them.

And, you know, it’s not that Harry’s imagining things; Draco does stare at him in a manner that causes Narcissa to tut something awful. I’m sure for Harry that feeding Teddy and cleaning his shit and doing all manner of things considered “women’s work” in front of another lad must make him feel a bit insecure, especially considering their antagonistic past. 

I don’t think Draco is off-put, though. I think Draco is intrigued by Teddy more than anything. He grew up without little ones around, like you did. Plight of the only child. And Metamorphmagi aren’t common. And I’m sure he’s even more fascinated, perhaps in spite of himself, by his one time school rival and recent Dark Lord vanquisher doing anything as common as licking his thumb to clean crusted milk off a baby’s face. He’s not disgusted; he’s baffled.

 

13 December 1998  
Poppy pronounced Teddy as healthy as can be during his check-up today—can you believe he’s nine months old already? He’s spent as much time outside your womb as he did in it now. Soon the days he spends without you will outnumber the paltry few you had together. 

The check-up was quick and easy—Poppy wastes no time. Poppy asked if we were planning on a quiet Christmas. You know, I keep forgetting about Christmas. If I’m not outside, face-to-face with the neighbours’ lights and the shop displays, it just fades into the background for me. The only thing worse than a Christmas spent worrying whether your dad was safe on the run is surely a Christmas spent with neither of you. Harry said we just hadn’t got around to decorating yet, but that he’s excited for Teddy’s first Christmas—said there’s nothing like Christmas with your family. Poppy and I agreed (a bit—well, a lot—dismally). Harry asked Poppy if she was looking forward to Christmas at Hogwarts and we reminisced about the festive season during our school days. Poppy considers herself lucky that she gets to enjoy it as an adult too, though the children run her ragged passing germs under the mistletoe. 

When Poppy left, Harry sheepishly apologised for foisting the prospect of decorating on me, and asked if I’d mind if he put a few things up to make it a bit more festive. Of course I don’t mind. Who am I, the Grinch? He told me that even when he was on the lam last year he and Hermione overheard some carols in a parish church and that for a moment he’d felt warmer.

 

14 December 1998  
Apropos of our conversation yesterday, Harry’s been wondering aloud this afternoon about a way to procure a tree without a car. I recommended a small plastic tree, something he could reasonably carry into an alley and Apparate with. He insisted that a plastic tree wouldn’t do, but conceded that a small one might be the only option. Narcissa refuses to believe that none of the vendors offer home delivery. Draco spoke up to suggest that someone might be hired to haul a tree. In the end Harry said he’d just have to go and find out. He wanted to take Teddy, but in the end I was able to convince him that if he found a tree he couldn't possibly Apparate back with it and Teddy safely. 

It’s the first time Harry’s left Teddy alone since Draco got here. Draco took his chance. He sidled over to them and tried to say hello to Teddy. His voice came out awkward and his body language matched. He’s clearly got no idea what to do with a baby, and is completely overthinking it. I told him to talk to Teddy normally—I’ve never been able to stand baby talk. I don’t think he had any idea what to say. He complimented Teddy’s hair (bright yellow) and said he wished he could transform himself that easily. He asked more about Teddy—when he was born, when he began shifting, that kind of thing. I’m not sure when, but at some point Narcissa shifted the baby into Draco’s lap and they sat together for some time, Teddy cosied up to Draco’s chest while Draco held one arm, nervous and stock-still, around Teddy’s middle. Babies have their own magic and no one can convince me otherwise. They soften people, and even those who’ve never had a child in their care manage to adopt a few key maneuvers within minutes. 

When Harry came home, Draco was bouncing a drowsy Teddy in his lap. Harry straightened up at the sight, but didn’t start trouble. He just walked over and gathered Teddy up, thanked “Malfoy” for minding him and excused himself to put Teddy down for a nap. 

 

A strapping young woman knocked on the front door this evening. No one knocks on our door, but Harry rushed to answer it without hesitation. Draco was right: it turns out there are people willing to haul Christmas trees for a fee. She followed Harry inside and asked him where he wanted it, he pointed to a corner and she unburdened herself before heading back outside to collect Harry’s other purchases. Harry spent ages trying to get the tree just so before moving onto stringing lights around the hearth and pinning up a stocking for Teddy. 

It would be very dishonest of me to deny that the scent of pine and the twinkle of the lights are sweet. It’s just that they’re bitter too.

 

15 December 1998  
To Harry’s extreme satisfaction, Teddy is thrilled about the state of the sitting room. The baubles that Harry painstakingly arranged on the tree had to be moved to higher branches, cluttering them up, but keeping them safe from grabbing fists. The sparkles the lights cast on the walls are also Teddy approved. He keeps smacking at them, frustrated that there is no substance to squish or clutch. Harry’s bloody pleased with himself, and we all benefit from that. The tension around here has subsided considerably. Only time will tell if it remains so when Christmas is past and the decorations are packed away.

 

16 December 1998  
It would appear that his stint with Teddy the other day only piqued Draco’s interest. Today while Harry was taking a bath, Draco offered to shadow Teddy on his constitutional around the ground floor. I thanked him and left him to it. Poor fool: the lure of the Christmas tree is strong and he spent quite a while alternating between stopping Teddy from grabbing the pine needles and trying to interest the young lad in something else. Eventually he found himself where every parent, elder sibling and other childminder does sooner or later: pulling faces. Soon Draco had Teddy distracted, laughing and imitating his distorted expressions.

Parenting is at least seventy-five percent entertaining, I’ve always thought.

When Harry came back, Draco went to the kitchen for a cuppa. I followed him and asked him to boil enough water for two. I thanked him for minding Teddy and told him he’s good with him, that Teddy’s taken a shine to him. Draco gave me a pitiful smile and asked why I’m being nice to him. What a question. Why on earth wouldn’t I be? He shrugged and asked why “Potter” is putting up with him.

I don’t pretend to know Harry inside and out, but it seems to me that that’s just the kind of person he is. If it’s true that Draco aided him during the war, Harry would count that for something. And he obviously does, since he vouched for Draco in the first place. I suppose what is really keeping the peace is that Harry doesn’t want to fight anymore. When I met him he was fighting for his life, but I think Harry doesn’t relish fighting. I think he wants to be left to his own devices. Of course, for someone who’s been put through what Harry’s been through (and I’m sure I don’t know a fraction of it), being left along can have repercussions…

Draco thinks Harry doesn’t want him around Teddy. And I can’t deny that when Teddy crawls in Draco’s direction, Harry redirects him or retreats with him. But, oddly, it doesn’t feel chilly, just protective, perhaps uncertain. Draco said it’s too bad. He’s sad that he can’t get to know the only nephew he’ll ever have. I thought the lad was going to cry, but he kept a stiff upper lip. They teach you that, I expect, in Azkaban. He confided in me that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named mocked Draco because of your marriage, that he asked Draco about babysitting “the cubs” when, before Teddy was ever born. He says it makes him nauseated to think about that, but that he can’t stop the words from popping into his mind like an assault.

I had no idea what to say to that. I’ve never been good at the sensitive stuff—that was your dad’s job. I just told him that if he wants time with his nephew now, he’ll have to claim it. If he wants to prove to himself that he sees Teddy as a person and not an animal, a half-breed, or even merely a half-blood, he’ll have to put the work in. 

 

17 December 1998  
If I haven’t started a civil war, it’ll be a Christmas miracle. This afternoon Draco encouraged Teddy to crawl into his open arms while he was ambling around the sitting room. Harry got a little bristly and told Draco that he was on top of things. Draco intimated that Teddy should be allowed to go where he likes, that Draco was happy to play with him, that he doesn’t mind keeping an eye on him, doesn’t mind doing his share. Harry promoted bristly to shirty and informed Draco that there are no “shares” of Teddy, that he’s a person, not a chore. Draco countered that that’s not what he meant and Harry knew it. Before Harry could respond, Draco added “no one likes a baby hog” and drove his point home by praising Teddy for making it over to him and pulling some of Teddy’s favourite faces. Narcissa was trying so hard not to smirk behind _Needful Things_ (she’sout of Agathas at present) that she gave up and hid behind it. I’d like to say I did a better job, but I doubt it.

 

Harry, Teddy and I received a summons to the Burrow for Christmas this evening. They invited us to come and stay on the 24th. Harry wrote back that he wanted Teddy to wake up here at home, but that we’d come along late on Christmas morning. I’m relieved. No one around here does any gourmet cooking. I’ve always prefered the consumption of food to the preparation. As you know, your dad barred me for life from anything more complex than a boil or a fry-up. So that’s the issue of Christmas dinner sorted. Ta, Molly. 

Then again, at least half of me is on tenterhooks. First Christmas without you. Even when you were in the academy, working 365 days a year, or when you pulled the short straw and worked through the holidays, you always found a way to pop round for a hug and a quick bite. Of course, that could be more to do with the lure of your dad’s Yorkshire puddings than anything else. 

Is it acceptable to spend Christmas in bed with a pot of mulled wine under a warming charm? It’s not as though Harry and Teddy really need me there. 

It’s not as though they need me here, either. 

On top of everything, I don’t relish leaving Narcissa and Draco here alone, confined to the house, on Christmas of all days. But even if they were invited they couldn’t come, and they will at least have each other. I’ll be sure to stock up on goodies and crackers sometime next week so that they have a bit of Christmas cheer to share with one another.

 

18 December 1998  
My Christmas blues are on the backburner today: Harry skipped his bath so he could hover over Teddy constantly. If this course of action continues, I’m afraid I’ll have to intervene. There will be no unwashed teenagers under this roof. I endured your phase of “training” your hair not to need shampoo. I’ve paid my dues.

 

20 December 1998  
Harry and Draco remain locked in a contest of… something. I’m not sure what. Harry actually hasn’t changed his behaviour much; he’s always hovered around Teddy like an anxious bumblebee. The only difference now is that someone else is undermining Teddy’s “need” to have him around all the time. Narcissa and I both help Harry to mind Teddy, but we’re not as assertive as Draco has become since our talk in the kitchen. We also make fewer suggestions that Harry is mollycoddling the lad, though he is. 

Actually, Draco’s making me doubt myself a bit on that front. I’m beginning to think I should have tried to address this with Harry sooner. Now it’s been going on for so long that I’m not sure how to help Harry correct things. And if I do bring it up, he’s likely to feel ganged up on. That’s the last thing I want, especially since, if I’m really honest with myself, I let things get to this point because it suited me to have Harry take the lead with Teddy. 

I’m not sure it’s fair of me to point out Harry’s foibles now that someone’s showed up who’s more interested in Teddy than I have been. I suppose I don’t have a choice, though. Teddy’s (and Harry’s) best interests have to come first. It’s more important to be just than fair.

I’ll talk to Harry after Christmas. There’s no sense in spoiling the holidays.

 

21 December 1998  
Winter solstice. I always used to love winter solstice—something about imagining countless people across millenia huddled together amidst the cold and dark outside, making the most of it, sitting by fires, drinking hot toddies, telling each other winter’s tales… It just feels very… communal. 

This year I live with four other people and it feels lonely.

When you were seven or eight I was feeling in a rut. For a few years I’d been feeling more and more as though being a mother had become all I was. I saw an ad on a Muggle noticeboard for a women’s solstice circle, and I decided to go. I wanted so much to feel autonomous, like I could do things fully on my own and this ad just caught my eye. I don’t know why; it was a bit hokey. When the solstice came I ended up feeling wishy-washy about going, and I nearly stayed home, but your dad encouraged me; he could sense that I’d been feeling off—I could never hide anything from him. He was such an empathetic person. Anyway, I wound up dragging myself there. There were a handful of Muggle women there, and one of them led us all through a ceremony. I don’t think it helped me feel more autonomous, but I do remember that the woman running the show said something that always stuck with me, even though I never fully appreciated why. She said that the beauty of the solstice is not simply in honouring the dark, in coming within ourselves and facing down the shadows we find, but also in the recognition that after the solstice the days once again grow longer. The darkest night passes and day by day a little more light returns. Nature doesn’t dwell in darkness forever.

 

22 December 1998  
Harry caved and showered today. Showered, please note, not bathed. Shortening the time he spends on basic hygiene must be his compromise with himself. When Harry returned, Draco asked if I wanted a cuppa. Over tea he asked me what Muggles use in lieu of Sticking Charms. He was a bit disappointed when I explained that Muggles have almost infinite substitutes, all depending on what is being stuck to what. He asked about fabric and I told him about manual sewing and adhesives. Of course then I had to explain all about glues. He asked if we had any about the place. I didn’t ask what for. If he’d wanted me to know he’d have come out with it instead of beating around the bush. Your dad and I did our mending by magic, but I told him I could get him some, so off I go to the fabric store this afternoon. I’m torn between excitement about getting a break from the Malfoy-Potter Baby Scuffle and disappointment that I might miss something funny. I can’t be passing up opportunities to laugh.

 

24 December 1998  
Well, it’s the big day tomorrow. 

Harry showed Narcissa how to prepare a roast (i.e., put meat in pan) and Narcissa and I relived our pre-schism years by lazing in the sparkle of the Christmas lights eating chocolate liqueurs. After a few hours the house smelled like lamb, and we entertained the idea of putting the chocolates away until after supper before dismissing it as folly. Harry carted a heap of gifts into the sitting room and put them under the tree, then spent the better part of the afternoon grabbing Teddy everytime he went for the wrapping. Dinner was delicious, and there’s plenty leftover—Harry’s also feeling guilty about leaving Narcissa, if not Draco, behind tomorrow. 

Between liqueurs Narcissa asked what Muggles normally do for Christmas. Of course, it’s very much like Christmas amongst magical people, only with poorer crackers. Narcissa suggested we turn on the wireless but Harry cautioned that we’d get more than our fill of Celestina Warbeck tomorrow. I turned on the telly, which gave Draco a fright, and flicked around until I saw Gonzo. I guess the Muppets made a version of A Christmas Carol. Harry moved to retreat with Teddy. I told him one family film wouldn’t ruin the boy, and they stayed. 

Poor Draco was completely unprepared to face a double assault by the charm of the Muppets and the spirit of Christmas. When it seemed Tiny Tim would die he was white knuckled, and he got a bit teary-eyed during the final singalong. So did the rest of us, though, so it’s all in the family. Teddy sported his attempt at a Gonzo nose until he fell asleep in Harry’s arms and it shifted back to his own. 

When the film finished Draco asked if all telly was like that, and Narcissa told him there’s usually more murder.

 

25 December 1998  
Christmas at the Burrow is no joke. All of the Weasleys were there, plus Percy’s partner, Hagrid, Harry, Teddy and myself. Molly’s spread was resplendent. She actually roasted a goose. That woman has her nose to the grindstone, not that I’m complaining. I must have eaten my weight in plum pudding and gingerbread. And put some in my purse for later. The Weasleys were thoroughly gracious and absolutely besotted with Teddy. They passed him around like a prize, and Harry took it in stride. Molly knitted him a wee jumper with a ‘T’ on it. We all got our own. Does the woman sleep? 

As delicious as everything was, and as frankly important as it was for Teddy to get exposed to some people outside the four of us, it was terribly overwhelming. The first Christmas after war time is bound to be hard on everyone. Molly and I kept sharing doleful looks like a couple of sadsacks. When tales of previous Christmas pranks were retold, mentions of Fred Weasley were met with silent reverence. We toasted to absent friends. Harry toasted you and Remus and then I had to make my exit. At home I bypassed Narcissa and Draco (rude, but needs must) and took to bed to sob sporadically for a few hours. It helped, actually. I got myself up eventually and joined Narcissa and Draco for leftovers. I shared my ill-gotten plum pudding and gingerbread with them afterward. 

Before all that, though, the five of us spent the morning together. Harry spoiled Teddy rotten and filmed the whole thing. I was made Teddy’s unwrapping proxy. The young lad has all kinds of new toys—Muggle and magical—to play with now. I reckon that within two days Harry will regret getting Teddy a Muggle fire engine with sound effects. 

I know _I_ regret it already. 

Teddy was more interested in the boxes and the wrapping than the gifts themselves, though.

Harry, sweet thing, got me a Blue Betty and a box of oolong that smells divine. He got Narcissa a new lawn chair. I have no clue when or how he got that past us into the house. I got Narcissa and Draco both a few sets of nice wool socks—it’s cold as hell already, and they’ve got to hack it for the rest of winter without Warming Charms.

I’m sure it was uncomfortable for them not to be able to reciprocate, but Narcissa kept things light by joking that her gift to me was not eating all of the liqueurs herself. Draco’s in the same boat as Narcissa, naturally. But he presented a plain bag and said he had something for Teddy. He pulled out an honest-to-goodness handmade mobile. He’d managed to repurpose some wire hangers as spokes and had attached cloth moons of different shapes to each one. So that’s the mystery of the No-Sew solved. It’s really beautiful, and I told him so. He said he’s good with his hands, and he likes to keep them busy. He dangled the mobile over Teddy’s head and asked if he liked it. Like with Harry’s gifts, Teddy was more interested in the paper bag from whence it came, but the gift is incredibly thoughtful. Even Harry said so.

So that was Christmas. Now we’re just just up drinking endless refills of eggnog waiting for Harry and Teddy to return. I expect Teddy’s hair will still be red when he and Harry make it home. I’m thankful for it. Any colour but magenta today. 

 

31 December 1998  
The year is almost over. We’ve spent the last week in the customary post-Christmas haze. After exhausting the joys of boxes, bags and torn paper, Teddy’s become increasingly interested in his new toys. Each one has his undivided attention for a few minutes. They are strewn everywhere. The sitting room is a tripping hazard. And that’s all the excuse I need to keep up the lazing marathon. 

 

1 January 1999  
I haven’t gone to bed yet, but it’s technically the new year, so I started a new page. Teddy went down hours ago. The remaining four of us are hardly what you’d call party animals, but we seem to have decided on the level of the collective unconscious to stay up to greet the new year. Narcissa and I got the kitchen spick and span while Harry and Draco cleared away all of Teddy’s toys. Close to midnight, Narcissa threw on a coat and wandered into the garden. We followed and I cast a Tempus to keep an eye on the time. At ten seconds out, the silence was broken with a chorus of “10-9-8-...”s throughout the neighbourhood. Draco and Narcissa joined in. When the hour struck several discordant strains of Auld Lang Syne started up, but they were quickly drowned out by the blasts of Muggle fireworks. You can always count on the youth to provide explosive entertainment. That was usually your purview. The noise woke Teddy—we heard him start to cry through the Monitor Charm, and Harry went in to grab him. He came back out though, with Teddy wrapped in his blanket and protected by a Muffling Charm over his ears. 

And that’s how I spent New Year’s Eve. In the garden with a Potter, two Malfoys and a Tonks-Lupin. 

The enigmatic “they” always say that you’ll spend the year doing what you do at midnight on New Year’s. This year, I don’t see how they could be wrong. 

 

5 January 1999  
Teddy took a stab at his first proper word today. It was “Siss.” Of course it was. 

I knew this wasn’t far off—of course it wasn’t. What was the boy to do? Not speak because I don’t want to face the words he won’t say? 

Narcissa has said nothing about it but I can _feel_ her smarminess. I consoled Harry that anything with ‘r’s is harder for babies, especially early on and once the first word comes, more follow quickly. 

I’ll have to decide what I want Teddy to call me lest I end up becoming answerable to “Om” or “Da” for the next year. Or maybe that would be better. 

The more time that goes by, the less sure I am of what the hell I am doing. Christmas was almost a fortnight ago, and I still haven’t talked to Harry about giving Teddy a little more space. I still can’t help but feeling like it’s not my place. Maybe it would have been in the first month Harry was here. But since then Harry has all but adopted Teddy. This house feels as much like Harry’s as it’s ever felt like mine. 

I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to do about Harry and Teddy. 

What would you want me to do, I wonder? That’s the NEWT bonus question.

 

7 January 1999  
I spoke with Harry today. In the end, I had to. All I’ve been able to think about since Christmas is you (for a change—ha ha). You were the most unapologetically independent person I ever met. You always were, even when I would have preferred you to mind me. I know that you and Remus chose Harry, and I think you chose well—Teddy’s as safe as houses and more cherished than the crown jewels by Harry. But you would never have fussed this much, clung this much, hovered this much. You’d have encouraged Teddy to explore the house on all fours, to make friends with everyone; you probably would have taught him to say fuck and thought it a laugh when it horrified Remus. I don’t think Harry needs to be the parent you would have been, but I do think Teddy deserves growing room, time on the floor with his toys without an adult attached at the hip, time to chase after whatever catches his eye, time to fall on his chubby arse and learn that it’s not a big to-do.

I told Harry as much, and he took it better than I’d hoped. Well, he didn’t tell me to mind my own business. He cried a little bit and told me he’s exhausted. He says when Draco or Narcissa, or even I, or even _he_ is minding Teddy, all he does is worry. He says imagining Teddy falling out of bed or having an accident keeps him up at night—that he’s petrified something will happen to Teddy, something irrevocable. 

I comforted him as best I could—told him all new parents go through this. The trick is to hover on the edge of worry instead of over the baby, and the older the baby gets, to ease up more and more, just an inch at a time. He shook his head. He doesn’t know if he can do it. I levelled with him and told him Teddy could end up very anxious if his primary caregiver is anxious all the time. Harry cried some more at that. He’s scared he’ll screw Teddy up. 

I tried all of your life to keep you safe, and in the end a lot of good it did. I look back now on every argument I had with you over your name, or your hair, or your clothes, or your career, or your hijinx, or your taste in music and friends and partners and see nothing but squandered time. 

I should have been encouraging you all that time. I told Harry he might try thinking of it as encouraging Teddy rather than backing off.

 

10 January 1999  
Harry took my words to heart. Today he asked Draco if he’d keep an eye on Teddy while he had a bath. Draco looked right surprised, but agreed and moved from the sofa to play blocks with Teddy on the floor. He was as good as his word, too—didn’t cheat and have a quick shower. When he came back he just sat down with Teddy and Draco. He didn’t imply that Draco wasn’t needed, just accepted his share of the the blocks that Teddy was enthusiastically handing them both.

 

16 January 1999  
Harry’s got a bit more life about him lately—he’s coming out of the funk I induced, and I have to give Draco most of the credit for that. Because mostly Harry’s come out of the doldrums in order to squabble reflexively with anything Draco says about Teddy. From my position as an observer, this is much more fun, and probably healthier for all concerned, than their initial detente. If they were hurling insults at one another or dredging up past grievances, I’d take it more seriously, but instead they’re quibbling over whether it’s safe to let Teddy try to crawl up the stairs if one of them sticks right behind him or let him try out some soft foods (“everyone deserves applesauce, Potter!”) or stay in the room if the telly’s on. Whenever Draco urges Harry to loosen up, Harry pushes back—asks since when Draco’s an expert on babies. 

It’s interesting to watch. Both of them grew up so tightly restricted, albeit in wholly different ways, and the effects of that manifest completely differently in each of them. Harry feels safer with the devil he knows, confining himself to a small area, to a few people, while Draco is restless and weary of feeling unable to self-direct. Of course, Draco was recently incarcerated and remains confined to the property…

Harry gives himself the last say in their debates, and Narcissa and I generally stay out of it (though Narcissa agreed with Draco about the television (Midsomer Murders and Jonathan Creek are premiering new series soon)). So Draco does get frustrated, but not enough to drop it. He finds other ways to get more involved with Teddy. He’s taken to enchanting Teddy with DIY toys every so often—a sock puppet, a rattle made from a painted jar and rice. It’s enough to charm anyone, baby or not. 

 

20 January 1999  
It’s a big week. Midsomer Murders premiers tonight and Jonathan Creek on Sunday. Draco hasn’t seen either yet (we’ve hardly watched any television since the rest of us got sick of watching the same episodes repeatedly back in November), but is interested. I think he might be disappointed by the lack of puppets. One can only hope the campy scandals and treachery of the Midsomer residents and the cheek of Madeline and Jonathan can make up for it.

 

DCI Barnaby remains on form. As does Narcissa. I am genuinely beginning to wonder if she’s using some form of wandless divination.

 

2 February 1999  
Happy birthday. 

I haven’t written in a while because you’re all I can think about lately and I worry that if I write about you right now, I’ll lose it. Despair, time, they feel like con artists. Everytime I think the sadness is loosening it’s grip, it’s Christmas, or a birthday, or a milestone, or Teddy remembers how fun it is to have magenta hair, or Draco says something or moves in a way that is uncannily like you at his age (genetics are a doozy, aren’t they?). I’m supposed to be doing better. But just the time of year reminds me of you—just the feeling of it. It’s all around and I can’t hide from that.

But I gave it the old college try. I didn’t get out of bed today. I didn’t shower or get dressed or leave this room except to use the toilet. Everyone let me be until about 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Narcissa brought me a tray with tea. I assumed she thought I was sick, but she put the tea on my side table, told me Teddy was happy with “the boys” and crawled in next to me. Your aunt and I just laid here, in my bedroom. After a while she left but came right back with liqueurs she’d stashed away from Christmas. We ate them and she said that she was sorry never to have met you. I don’t know how she knew it was your birthday. She said it was a grave error not to have admitted she was wrong and sought to mend fences years ago. She apologised for not asking for my forgiveness sooner, which I suppose is her version of asking for it now. I couldn’t stop crying, but she didn’t leave. We just lay there, and, for a while, I felt like it was okay to forget everything outside my room, outside my missing you, outside how broken down I feel. I could forget the world and just feel. 

When I’d been cried out for a while, your aunt cleared away the empty chocolate box and wrappers and went, I presume, to bed.

I feel a fucking shambles. I feel wrung out. I don’t want to feel wrung out. I want to keep all my missing you inside me. I don’t want to let it out or let it go. I don’t know if I can live with myself if I learn to live without you. But I already am learning how. It’s like some instinct I wish I knew how to overcome.

 

3 February 1999  
No one said a thing about me taking to my bed yesterday. I don’t know if Narcissa told them about you, or if they just have damn good instincts. I’m grateful either way. 

Draco won the food debate, by the way, which is a first. Actually, it’s a couple of firsts. Although Harry’s had a lot of questions about babies, he has not generally appreciated unsolicited parenting advice. And of course, agreeing with Draco is unprecedented. But when they were sniping at each other yesterday Draco accused Harry of being a control freak and not being able to handle not being everything for Teddy. Harry said Draco doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but lo and behold, this morning Teddy got a bit of applesauce and made a mess of a few small strips of torn up bread. Draco helped him with the new tastes and textures while Harry had his tea. Naturally bread plus applesauce plus saliva equaled a very messy baby, so Draco said he’d bathe him since it was his fault. Harry accompanied them, but I think it’s a sign of progress that he didn’t just do it himself. 

Those two are falling into step together—not in a routine way, mind you. Aside from his naps, which are pretty regular, Harry and Draco just move through their days catering to Teddy’s needs and predilections as they come. Harry is visibly holding himself back from doing everything on his own, while Draco is getting more physical with Teddy—more quick to cuddle, to blow raspberries.

Watching the two of them fall into step around Teddy is rather like watching a stoppable force meet a moveable object.

There’s no telling if it will last. If Harry will snap back like a rubber band and bear down on Teddy again, if Draco will lose interest. But then, there are never any guarantees on that score. Right now they’re as good as Teddy’s parents, and, what’s more, they’re enthusiastic about it. What kind of eighteen-year-old is happy to get landed with an infant? They’ve both stepped up more than I have and I’m supposed to be thirty years more mature and experienced. But age and experience are no substitute for a genuine impulse to parent. I’m sorry I don’t have that for Teddy. I should have that.

Narcissa and I haven’t talked about it, but I feel sure that we both support Harry and Draco in the direction they’re taking. 

 

5 February 1999  
Your aunt and I are apparently no better than common reprobates. We’ve got a friendly wager going. She thinks things with Harry and Draco will come to a head before Valentine’s Day. I think after. I’ve got a month of Sunday pancakes in bed riding on Harry staying emotionally repressed for another ten days.

It doesn’t sound great, I know, but I promise it’s all in good fun. If you could see them, you’d understand. This morning Teddy weed on Draco while Draco was changing his nappy in the sitting room. Draco finished getting Teddy’s new nappy before walking Teddy over to Harry’s arms, pulling off his wet shirt, and heading for the loo to wash up. All I saw was a spotty, piss-covered pubescent torso. But Harry got a bit flustered once Draco cleared the room he had to go upstairs with Teddy to have a lie down.

 

7 February 1999  
You would have loved to have been here tonight. We watched Jonathan Creek. Harry and Draco were sat next to each other on the sofa and for a full hour your aunt and I avoided each others’ eyes. We had no choice. Harry and Draco kept shifting their hands closer and closer together at an agonisingly slow rate of speed. They thought they were being stealthy, of course. 

Why do teenagers always think they are so much sneakier than they are? I think it must be some twin, paradoxical impulse to get one over on the grown-ups in the vicinity while also secretly yearning to be seen, witnessed. Validated? Anyway, by the time Jonathan uncovered the mystery they’d managed to get their pinkies _just_ touching. They had them hooked together by the end of the credits. Narcissa and I left without a word, retreated to my bedroom and howled into pillows as quietly as we could. I had to tell Narcissa “you were right and I was wrong,” (the high stakes of our wager), but it was worth it. I haven’t laughed like that since before the war.

You’d have loved it. Though it was lucky for them you weren’t here. You’d never have stayed tactfully silent. Actually, you’d have started razzing them weeks ago for pussyfooting around. Not everyone moves as straightforwardly as you though, my dear. Would that we all did.

 

10 February 1999  
Your aunt and I continue to be models of self-discipline. Several mornings ago Draco and Harry came down to breakfast together—the room that Draco shares with Narcissa is on the ground floor. We are determinedly saying nothing. We actually have talked about it a bit now, and we’ve decided to demonstrate our acceptance, support and approval by following their lead. We’d desperately love to tease them a bit (schoolyard rivalry to romance—such a cliché), but we hold our tongues. 

Winter is starting to ebb, and Harry and I have resumed our walks most days, provided it’s reasonably dry. It’s harder on Draco now. He’d sorely love to get beyond the garden, even just to walk through dull residential streets. When Harry and I leave with Teddy, Narcissa and Draco often accompany us as far as the gate. They’re always in the garden when we return—Narcissa, lounging with an afghan wrapped around her, Draco pulling up weeds and clipping back overgrown still-bare branches. He’s on his own there. The garden would take so little time to get back in shape, but the rest of us just can’t be arsed. Draco likes to keep his hands busy though, and he was right before, he is good with them. The neighbours will thank him, in any case. 

 

14 February 1999  
Harry and I took Teddy into London today. I hadn’t been there since I visited the apothecary last year. About a block away from the house, Harry said that he wanted to buy something. He looked bashful about it so I agreed without question. He did a light glamour—enough to cover his scar and lighten his hair a bit. I changed the shape of his specs for him for good measure. We walked to the nearest secluded spot and Apparated to Diagon Alley. We didn’t window shop. Harry led us to Green Thumb’s and picked out a bunch of seeds and a couple of gardening tools, blushing the whole time. When we were back Cornwall I stopped Harry and told him Draco would love them. I know I said I was playing it cool, but Harry was obviously nervous and seemed like he could use a bit of a pep talk.

Draco and Narcissa were sat in the garden when we came home. Harry gave Draco his gift, and Draco thanked him and kissed him primly on the cheek. 

You’d be whistling, catcalling and telling them to have a proper snog already.

 

1 March 1999  
Things are changing around here. 

To Harry and Draco’s chagrin, Teddy’s learned to say “no”, “yes”, “light” and “want” and has advanced from “Siss” to “Sissa,” but still hasn’t managed the rest of our names. 

With her favourite programmes over until next year, Narcissa has returned to her old friend Agatha. She’s read all the ones we had in the house, so Harry and I stopped in at the library on our walk today to keep her supplied. She and Draco also eked out a small victory on the television front and have become captivated by the bizarre world of the Teletubbies. They pretend to put it on for Teddy, who admittedly does like turing his hair Dipsy green and making it stick up into a point--he attempt at an antenna. Draco admires Tinky Winky for carrying a stylish handbag.

Draco’s whipped the front garden into shape. The grass is still brown, and the small garden beds are bare, he’s turned all the soil and has been staying on top of the weeds so that he can plant his seeds come March. Teddy likes to play in the dirt with him. Harry worried about Teddy eating dirt at first, but Draco told him gently that a little dirt never hurt anyone. Harry nodded and left them to it, albeit to watch nervously from a few feet away. 

Draco is more laissez-faire with Teddy than Harry, but not dangerously so. He lets the lad play in the dirt, but never without keeping half an eye on him and giving him a bath afterward. He never cuts the grass unless Teddy’s got a Muffling Charm on him and is solidly planted in someone’s lap. (And _I_ never thought I’d see the day a Malfoy operated a weed wacker.)

Every morning before breakfast Draco checks out the window to see if there’s still frost. He’s eager to get planting—says he’s going to risk it after the first frost-free morning.

Harry’s still Harry. He’s muddling through, his instinct is still to bear down on Teddy, but Draco challenges that, and little by little Harry is meeting those challenges, easing up, showing Draco that Teddy is more to him than a security blanket. I think they’re well matched—Harry might be backing off here and there, but he’s no doormat. They’re forced to compromise when it comes to Teddy, and if they can apply that to other areas of their lives, they might be able to make a real go of it. And, of course, on a basic level, it’s good for Harry to have someone his own age around. In Draco, Harry has someone who knows him, who’s equally committed to Teddy, who is keen to talk about the anatomical magic of Metamorphmagi. (Hermione enjoys it too, but it takes them eons to carry on a conversion by trans-hemispheric post.)

I’m the least grounded of all of us. I’m just trying to keep up as life shifts around me. If I were a wise woman I would take a leaf out of your book and revel in not knowing what will happen next. Or I could take a leaf out of Draco’s and find a hobby (or ten). I could do anything. I could get involved politically (the overcrowding issue still hasn’t been solved). But I think that before I do any of that, though, I need to clear out the attic.

 

8 March 1999  
Despite the fuss Narcissa made over Harry’s birthday and the comfort she offered me on yours, she was as silent as a mouse regarding her own as it approached. But I popped round to Tesco yesterday and when Narcissa headed to bed with _The Man in the Brown Suit_ I popped upstairs to see what the lads were up to, and found the three of them snoozing in bed—Harry and Draco were like a pair of brackets around Teddy. 

With everyone down for the count I spent some quiet time with myself baking a cake. We ate it for breakfast this morning. It was black forest, your aunt’s favourite. She had two huge slices and didn’t say anything about the pre-fab frosting or the tinned cherries. She even had the audacity to swipe her finger through _my_ icing and lick it off. The common life agrees with my sister.

 

13 March 1999  
Draco finally got to plant his seeds today. The lot of us trundled out front. Harry, the twitterpated oaf, got the video camera back out and made a nuisance of himself filming Teddy happily covering himself in dirt and Draco making shallow holes in the soil and dropping seeds in. When the seeds were in the ground, Draco splayed his hands out on top of the soil and closed his eyes. After a while Harry asked him what he was doing, and he said he could feel the magic in the herbs. Harry put his hands by Draco’s and closed his eyes too. He trusted Narcissa and I would watch Teddy.

 

21 March 1999  
Spring is upon us. It’s still far too early to see any growth on Draco’s herb garden, but he says he can feel the sprouts pushing their way up through the soil. He’s not as patient as that makes him sound. He’s still restless, still longs not to be kept on a short leash, still has to keep his hands occupied. Whittling is his pastime du jour. 

I made an offhand remark the other day about looking for a new programme on telly we all could follow. Harry said he likes spending time outside. He likes seeing dirt under Draco’s fingernails, if you ask me. Anyway, a couple days later he went out and came back with a boombox and a handful of cassette tapes. His selections are all over the place. Some of it I know well, Fleetwood Mac, Cat Stevens, Cream—we probably have these albums in the attic, tucked away with care by your dad and waiting for me to stop being so silly. Other artists, I’ve never heard of. Today I got the singular joy of witnessing your aunt tapping her foot in time to a woman singing about the restorative powers of come while Draco and Harry simultaneously dove for the stop button. Narcissa remarked on the liberation of modern young women. I’ll bet wherever you are, you’ve got your fist raised.

 

25 March 1999  
Teddy’s first birthday is a few weeks away, and Harry and Draco are bickering over what flavour of cake would be best and whether or not to have a Tellytubbies theme. 

I’m quite happy to let them hash it out. Narcissa and I will both eat any kind of cake put in front of us. 

More to the point, I don’t feel festive. I feel like time is passing too quickly. News came about your dad this time last year, but there was no time to stop and deal with that. We had to keep going. We didn’t have a choice. You were here with Remus and me and almost ready to give birth. We were both emotional wrecks, but you were safe, or as safe as anybody was at the time. And even through your pain you were so excited to meet your baby. We all were. I was in hell. I wanted to join your dad, but I knew you needed me more than ever. You knew, Remus knew and I knew that we didn’t matter in comparison to making sure Teddy got here safely, and stayed secure. 

In hindsight, I suppose I never really got the chance to be excited about grandmotherhood. And now, just when I’m coming to terms with it—just when I feel like I’m wiggling myself into a role in Teddy’s life that I can play, that I _want_ to play—more anniversaries appear on the horizon and all I can think is that time moves too fast. I don’t have enough time between these days to steel myself, to toughen up, to get over things. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to. Getting over you or your dad feels so wrong. It’s melodramatic but when these days approach I feel like I lose my sense of how to be a person.

 

1 April 1999  
The lads sent out invitations today--same cohort as Harry’s birthday, plus Poppy. Draco handmade invitations in purples, greens, yellows and reds in exchange for conceding his preferred chocolate cake to a vanilla one covered in Hundreds and Thousands, which Harry insists is “more fun”. Both are pleased with their victory. Draco’s been cutting and stapling paper triangles for homemade bunting in his hardwon colour scheme. Harry told him he doesn’t mind decorating by magic on the 13th, but Draco said he he enjoys it, so Harry took to keeping Teddy occupied so he doesn’t get in Draco’s way while he’s using pinking shears.

Teddy’s getting so big though, he gives Harry and Draco a run for their money when they’re trying to stop him getting into this or that. He’ll outgrow his crib soon. Hell, he’ll outgrow sharing a room with Harry and Draco before they know it. I’m not sure what will happen then. We could add another room with magic, or find a larger house. We can talk about it when the birthday dust settles. It’ll keep.

 

9 April 1999  
Poppy came round again for Teddy’s twelve month check-up. Draco pulled his best faces to try and keep Teddy in a fixed spot while Poppy ran her tests. Poppy congratulated us on a healthy baby. He’s never been sick, I told her. She frowned at that and asked how often he plays with other children. Harry admitted that he’s never met another baby—that he’s only ever been around adults. Poppy told me I should know better, that babies need to be exposed to all manner of germs, magical and Muggle. Draco got defensive and told her he plays in the garden, right in the dirt, and that he does go with Harry and I to run errands, into shops filled with people. 

Poppy was relieved he haven’t been keeping him under quarantine, but advised that we start introducing him to other children, or at least take him to common play areas. It’s important for his development, as well as his immune system.

Harry and Draco looked grave for the rest of the day. Narcissa tabled the idea of preschool, but Harry rejected it out of hand. The trouble is that none of us know anyone with young children. Narcissa and I are well past that age. We’re old enough to be grandmothers. We _are_ grandmothers (and if being someone’s great aunt and as well as their grandmother in-common-law isn’t an incestuous dual role worthy of a pureblood woman, I don’t know what is). And Harry and Draco are still so young—babies raising babies. In the end it came down to a mutual agreement that we’d figure something out. At least Teddy will be around some more people (and their health-giving germs) in a few days.

 

10 April 1999  
Harry’s interest has swung from Metamorphmagi back to parenting best practices for the moment. He asked where I stand on purposefully exposing children to Dragon Pox to prevent adult infections. Narcissa and I did with Draco and with you, and Harry was shocked at us. Draco suggested they read more about it before getting worked up either way. Harry shook it off and asked what we thought of homeschooling versus Muggle primary school. Draco had a governess, but we sent you to the local comprehensive. If it’s not one thing, it’s another with children. And it never stops. Even when they’re off to school, you can’t turn off your worry, thinking about future decisions, wondering if you made the right ones in the past. Harry will have to learn that so often with children it’s not about picking the right option and avoiding the wrong one, it’s about picking _an_ option—any one—and carrying on, making new decisions, selecting new options as needed.

 

11 April 1999  
I was up half the night thinking about choices. When Harry and Draco headed to the garden with Teddy and the boombox I stopped Narcissa and asked her for her help. She just followed me to the first floor landing and, from there, into the attic. She followed me. I sat down on the dusty floor and she did the same. 

We’ve been healing our relationship in silence, she and I. 

We sat for a while and finally I told her I forgive her. And I told her I need her help, that the attic is full of your things—yours and your father’s—and that I’ve been trying not even to think about them for a year, but I can’t manage it. 

I’ve spent the last year trying to delude myself that you’re not dead. That you’re just lost, or disappeared. But you’re not gone, you’re dead, and I have to face it sometime. In a fortnight it’ll be a full year. I know there’s no expiration date on grief, no correct timeline for healing, but I don’t want to go on like this another year. I feel pathetic.

Narcissa reached for the nearest box and opened it. It was full of tax records. She pulled out a heap of papers and asked what needs to be kept. I told her to bin everything more than five years old. We moved through a few more boxes of papers—your father had stuff from the 80s still—and onto one filled with books. Narcissa asked if we could keep those. 

It got really hard when we found a box of photos. I showed you to her—you when you graduated Hogwarts and the Aurors, you at the London Zoo, you on your first broomstick ride. She said she likes your hair and that you look like me. She said you must have been remarkable. I said you were, that you were one of a kind. I couldn't stop crying, so we had to call it a day. Narcissa rooted around for a pen and marked the box “To Keep.” 

That was enough for today.

 

12 April 1999  
Narcissa and I spent some more time in the attic. We found your dad’s LPs and and some of your eight tracks. Some more searching turned up the record and eight track players. Dare I risk letting Harry play Heart, or Depeche Mode, or Billy Idol, and getting weepy in the garden for the world to see? I felt like a fool every time my lip trembled looking at _stuff_ and _things_. But everytime I wanted to run downstairs and get in bed and stayed anyway, I felt a tiny bit better. I followed Narcissa’s lead as she opened boxes packed not so long ago and called out: “silverware” and “cleaning supplies” and “Christmas decorations” and “toys” and “I don’t know what this is” (it turned out to be a box of A/V cables and dead batteries). I told her I wanted to see the toys and she didn’t argue—didn’t coddle me. She dragged it over and started pulling out your things. Things your dad and I or your gran or our friends had got for you. It was tearful work, but I found some Beatrix Potter books and a Peter Rabbit plushie. You loved Peter Rabbit; you thought he was daring. 

 

13 April 1999  
For a birthday Teddy won’t remember, it sure was a scene. Draco draped painstakingly crafted Tellytubbies-coloured bunting all around the fence, the front door, the windows, even Narcissa’s chair. Additional seats were procured and we spent another birthday in the garden. I made the vanilla cake Harry requested last night, and when Molly arrived with a chocolate one (to Draco’s delight and Harry’s mock annoyance) that made two. Poppy came and nodded approvingly at a cake-sticky Teddy being passed around from lap to lap.

Cards were produced, video footage was captured. But Harry didn’t spend the whole party behind the lens. In fact, I rather got the impression that even if he’d wanted to, Arthur Weasley would not have allowed it. The man was practically delirious when Harry handed it over and said it was as simple as pointing it where the action was. Ron and Ginny Weasley looked dubious about Draco, but buttoned it. Hermione Granger—recently returned from Australia (sadly, without her parents) acted as though Harry and Draco’s relationship was entirely expected to her. (Harry assured me later this was intended as a demonstration of how well adjusted he too could be if he’d start getting therapy. Draco said it was just because Granger wanted to give off the appearance of knowing everything. I asked why it couldn’t be both.) Neville Longbottom made Draco’s day by indulging Draco in showing off his magical herb garden, now beginning to burst to life. Luna Lovegood pulled the decaying ratan chair up next to your aunt and spent the afternoon chatting between bites of cake. Narcissa convinced Harry last week to let her be in charge of flipping the tapes. He agreed on the proviso that she play Raffi and Fred Penner every so often and absolutely no Madonna, Alanis Morissette or, above all, Liz Phair until Molly and Arthur were gone.

Teddy got spoiled again. The Weasleys brought him a great deal of clothing that should keep him going until he’s through at Hogwarts—said they were delighted to pass it along to someone in the family. Bless. Ron bestowed a wee Chudley Cannons hat upon Teddy, Neville a knit cactus and Luna a new quilted picnic blanket with a Brolly Charm built in. Draco gave him his first attempt at real carving—a small wolf sat on its haunches. He says he’s not happy with it, but I think it’s astonishing for a first attempt. Harry gave the boy a fucking child-sized car in which to run over all of our toes. Draco called him out for showboating. I gave him Peter Rabbit. Teddy loves him. Bunnies have been his favourite for a while. Do you think he got that from you? Muggles would call that genetic memory. His eyes—your eyes—lit up when I introduced him to Peter. Your eyes are all I can see when he’s holding Peter Rabbit. I don’t think I’m imagining it.

Teddy crawled from admirer to admirer, drinking in the adoration, occasionally getting scooped up. He was gleeful when Arthur Weasley tossed him just above his head and caught him over and over again. Harry checked in sometimes, but also enjoyed the party, enjoyed the day with his friends. While Arthur and Molly cooed over Teddy and talked wistfully about how they don’t stay small long, Harry lounged in the grass with a Butterbeer. He looked content.

So it was a hard day for me, but a good day for us all. The next generation looks promising. You should be here to see for yourself.

 

2 May 1999  
I’ve decided it’s time to put this book aside. Harry wasn’t sure when you died, officially—the 1st or the 2nd, so I decided on today. I wanted as much time as I could, and besides, it was on the 2nd that I received the news. 

Your son is thriving. He orders “Hare” and “Co” about, and maybe one of his next words will be Nana. After Teddy’s birthday we talked as a family about what to do about space. We agreed that it wouldn’t become a real issue for at least another year, but we’d all like to have a plan in place, and Harry said he and Draco would like move Teddy into his own room within the year. Draco agreed, and gave Harry’s hand a squeeze of acknowledgement. I’m sure facing that idea is not easy for Harry, but he’s staring it down anyway.

Harry would ideally like to move to a larger place, somewhere with a larger garden, with more room for Teddy, and especially Draco and Narcissa, to move around. He said he’s talked to a Muggle estate agent about keeping an eye on acreages in Cornwall—he doesn’t want to go too far—perhaps Tintagel. Narcissa thanked Harry for keeping her in mind, but said she’d prefer to stay here—with her house arrest up in a month, she doesn’t need all that space. I’ve also grown a bit attached to this place. I’ve felt horribly here the last year—more—but it’s also taken care of me, been a refuge. 

And so it seems Harry and Draco will begin the process of finding a house and changing the location of Draco’s house arrest. That could be a real hurdle, but maybe Harry can pull some strings. 

Life keeps moving ahead. It has no respect for my internal timing. I’ve fought tooth and nail with myself to cling to you this last year. In many ways writing to you has helped me to stay sane—given me a place to get my feelings and thoughts out, especially when it felt like they were assaulting me. But I do not deceive myself that it has not also been a crutch—all well and good when I was unable to walk on my own, but now I think it is time to try to walk again without it. Against all odds, my sister and I have one another now, and that’s not nothing. 

So I’m going to put this book aside. And I’m going to Vanish the last of your milk. I’ve been keeping it under a stasis charm in my closet. Can you imagine how fast they’d cart me off to St Mungo’s if anyone found out? It can’t nourish Teddy and it can’t bring you back and it can’t keep me connected to you any better than my memories or my love.

I love you. 

But it’s not enough just to say that; three words aren’t enough. Especially these three, which are said too much, thrown around too often. They’re diluted. And they could never come close to expressing how I feel about you and about having been your mother. But now I have to trust that you knew that, that you know it. I have to trust you know that I’ll never really stop thinking about you.

I’ll see you when I see you, Tonks.


End file.
